


Every Breaking Wave

by dragonofdispair, Rizobact



Series: Transformers Fantasy AU Novels/Novellas [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Alien Biology, Alien Mythology/Religion, Angst, F/F, F/M, Fantasy AU, Fluff, Kidnapping as Courtship, Magic, Noble AU, Public Sex, Romance, Seduction, Spark Sexual Interfacing, Tactile Sexual Interfacing, Worldbuilding, barbarian au, culture clash, femme!Jazz, femme!Ricochet, femme!prowl, gender bending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-07 23:50:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 124,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11634522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/pseuds/Rizobact
Summary: Princess Prowl of Praxus thought there were only two sources of mystery and wonder left in her sheltered life: the stars above she’s made a study of since she was harvested, and the secretive barbarians that live out in the Rust Sea. So when it’s decided that she and Princess Arcee of Iacon should celebrate their engagement by taking a tour of their respective kingdoms, Prowl arranges for their trip to the Praxan coastal city of Hightower to coincide with the Polyhexian trade season…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Jumping on the Barbarian AU bandwagon. And… look! Riz finally got me to write something with a happy ending! Of course in return I dragged her through a deep pit of angsty feels. So warnings for both of those, I guess. XD ~Dragon
> 
> This story hijacked the muses so badly it derailed both of us from our other projects until we got it out of our systems. Totally not sorry it did, since it was so much fun to do! Pit of angst notwithstanding; maybe it was just how it struck me personally at the time, but this is now officially the story I have cried the most when writing (but it’s happy! I swear! :DDD) ~Rizo
> 
> Beta'd by Mog (ficmog here on Ao3)

_Like every broken wave on the shore_  
_This is as far as I could reach_  
          —U2, [Every Breaking Wave](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LlUkpL57zE4)

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Koekoea swarmed over the marketplace, calling out _mine, mine, mine, mine_ in their shrill voices. Mechs and femmes of all sorts chased them away whenever they dared to land too close to the stalls. Most of the local market goers wouldn’t even think of eating a koekoea, but there were a significant number of visitors this season who thought the mechanimals would be a tasty, easy meal for the evening.

Now was the harvest season. Or, as it was known in the Praxan coastal city of Hightower, the trade season. Whatever it was called, it was an immensely important time of the vorn for the Polyhexians that inhabited the Rust Sea on Praxus’ border. All the priests of all the tribes gathered together on the Polyhexian Islands’ few hotspots to harvest the new mechs and femmes who had matured there, and many Polyhexians gathered with their priests for a peaceful frenzy of non-stop trading, bartering, and negotiating. Laws were discussed and sometimes changed. Conflicts between tribes were resolved. Storm season adoptions straightened out. Music was made. Games played. Mates chosen and wooed (and a great many liaisons between not-mates were had as well!). Sparks were released into the wind on a nightly basis, plumes of tiny lights that served as a beacon to any Polyhexian wanderers sailing near the hotspots.

But the tribes also scattered almost as much as they came together during the harvest season. Merchants and warriors, hunters and fishermechs visited each other to trade what they had for what they needed or wanted, and many inevitably came to Hightower for that purpose. This was the only time of vorn the Praxan city opened its harbors to the islanders they called barbarians, eager for the shells and bones and sea-caught delicacies that only the Polyhexians could bring to the city. In return, the Polyhexians bartered for shipbuilding metals, seed crystals to plant on those of their islands that could grow such things, steelsilk sailcloth, stainless steel ropes to make into nets, bronze fishing weights and glass fishing floats, and inland-made luxury items of all sorts.

And Polyhexians saw the cloud of koekoea as food on the wing, for any hunter able to catch them.

The koekoea were canny and not easily caught though, especially not in flight. Smart birds didn’t even try to land. But the market — draped in colorful flags and signs and awnings, with its various foodstuffs and sparkly things on display — was too much of a temptation for any koekoea to leave entirely alone.

Looking up from where she was bartering some of the shells and pearls she’d won raiding during the last war season for a set of colorful glass fishing floats, Jazz saw a koekoea prepare to stoop for the display of Praxan sweets across the street. She watched it. The koekoea paid no attention to her, too busy watching the Praxan calling out the virtue of his wares in the trade argot used by Polyhexians and Praxan merchants in Hightower.

Many warriors thought the harvest season boring; their political power in the tribes waned, and they went from leaders of the raiding ships to near-outcasts. Harvest season had no need for warriors. Jazz supposed she was weird, but she’d always liked the harvest season. She and her twin made a habit of coming to Hightower to buy things every time between war-seasons. It was always so interesting seeing how the mainlanders lived in their mech-built caves, and there was a great deal of fun to be had, games to be played, highgrade — which wasn’t available on the islands — to be drunk, and new foods to eat. Like koekoea.

The koekoea called out twice — _MINE! MINE!_ — and the glasswright finally noticed his customer’s distraction. Seeing the gull and the steelbone knife in the Polyhexian warrior’s hand, he only shook his head and waited.

In a flash, the knife flew across the street, impaling the bird mid-stoop to the support pole of one of the stalls. The koekoea’s audio-shattering death-shriek echoed through the air, drawing everyone’s optics as surely as Jazz’s victory-whoop did. Hurriedly she scrambled across the street to claim her kill before anyone else had the bright idea of making off with it (or her knife!).

“Watch it!” a thin blue femme with a pink helmcrest and kibble framing her face exclaimed angrily in Praxan.

Jazz didn’t know many words in the inlanders’ tongue, but she knew a few — enough to understand that, at least. “Sorry. This one apologizes,” she answered in the trade argot. She truly hadn’t meant to get in anyone’s way. But she needed to get to the koekoea…

Jazz’s thoughts petered out as a second femme returned to the blue one’s side from examining the sweets. _Her_ Jazz recognised: Princess Prowl of Praxus. Jazz had been here in Hightower three sunrises ago when the Princesses’ arrival had been announced. She hadn’t thought much of the inlanders’ maybe-future-chief then. Now she couldn’t help staring. Up close, Prowl was undeniably gorgeous. But there was something else, something more subtle…

The finders’ spell!

At the beginning of the trade season Jazz (and almost every other warrior who didn’t plan to just spend the season sulking) would have one of the tribe’s priest-mages cast the spell of finding for her, so that if she saw the other half of her spark, she would know it. Ricochet scoffed that Jazz persisted; they were already the other half of each others’ sparks. Twins didn’t need anyone else in their bond. But what Jazz was feeling now, looking into the Princess’s optics, could be nothing _but_ the finder’s spell telling her that this beautiful femme was the one.

So captivated was she, she’d ceased seeing anything but Prowl until the blue femme — whom Jazz now recognized as the foreign (from I-KON, or something like that, it didn’t matter) princess who’d come with the Princess this vorn — interposed herself between them, lightly shoving Jazz out of the two maybe-future-chieftains’ way. She said something Jazz didn’t understand, but the Polyhexian could recognize an insult when she heard one.

Laid back as she was (unusual for one who’d chosen the path of the warrior almost immediately after harvesting), Jazz rarely felt frustrated with the restriction on fighting during this season. Fighting while new tribe members were being harvested from the hotspots was forbidden, not just by Kiahi and Moana, but by Hoku and all the other gods as well. This was the time for new life. But some insults needed to be avenged. She couldn’t just _let_ this other femme think she could insult _Jazz_ without consequence! Fortunately, there were permissible alternatives to fighting.

“Sorry, so sorry,” Jazz grovelled sarcastically in the trade argot. “This one apologizes. _So_ many apologies…”

The femme brushed past her, ignoring her completely.

Jazz held her servile, apologetic pose just for a moment, long enough for the crowd to lose interest and ignore her once again, staring at the femmes’ backs… Prowl did have a lovely back… before shaking herself free of her trance to examine her prize: one of the blue femme’s valuable long-knives. Steel, with a blue metal hilt and a gem in the pommel. It wasn’t personally to Jazz’s taste, but it was a fine prize. The steel was good and would hold an edge for many strikes against a foe’s plating. Longer than the bronze and bone weapons Polyhexians forged. It’d serve her well during the next war season.

She looked up just in time to see Prowl looking back at her through the crowd. Jazz just grinned unapologetically. She saw Prowl stifle a giggle before turning back to her companion, and she waited a moment to see if Prowl would tell the other future-chief about Jazz’s theft, but they just continued out of sight. Apparently not.

Happy as she possibly could be, Jazz tucked the long-knife away and retrieved the koekoea that had started the whole thing. She didn’t go back to finish bartering for the fishing floats though. She and Ricochet still had plenty, if not the pretty colored ones the glasswright had, and Jazz had other things she needed to do now. She needed a new coat of paint, and a plan, in that order. She didn’t want to start wooing Prowl with shabby, sea-and-battle-worn enamel after all! _No one_ wanted an unkempt bondmate!

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“You shouldn’t be so quick to temper with the Polyhexian visitors,” Prowl admonished her intended gently. The islanders were easy to spot even in this crowd, with their necklaces and beads and bracelets. Everywhere Prowl caught tantalizing glimpses of jewelry: necklaces of beads and shells, pearls and steelbone, and bracelets of fraying cloth. Other cloth ornaments resembling flags worn around the waist or shoulders Prowl didn’t even have the words to name were rarer, but present. Occasionally she even saw an islander indulging in a bit of bluish ritual paint that didn’t match their enameled plating on their chests and faces and Prowl almost literally itched for the opportunity to ask them what those marks meant.

“Barbarians,” Arcee snapped, her plating still ruffled from the Polyhexian femme’s obviously insincere apologies. And maybe by the fact that the warrior had killed a cybergull right there in the marketplace as well. Arcee was a warrior from a culture that valued peace above all else. Iacon still kept a standing army, but soldiers were segregated from the general population until they’d been ritually cleansed of the death they’d caused in defense of their country. It was a sin to kill, according to the Iaconi religion. Even a mechanimal’s life was sacred. “Should watch where they’re going.”

“She probably should have,” Prowl allowed diplomatically. She wasn’t nearly as offended as her companion, however. She preferred to look for opportunities to expand her knowledge, not reasons to judge. That spirit of curiosity was the reason she was a mage, besides being the princess. Very early on she had felt drawn to the stars, their mystery and magic, and had spent every spare moment of time she could find working to unravel those mysteries.

Polyhexians didn’t practice magic in a way that was understood by Praxus — indeed, many scholars claimed they didn’t practice _real_ magic at all, merely natural alchemy with ritualistic components — but Prowl wasn’t so convinced there was nothing she could learn from them and their culture. She’d already read everything there was about them in the capital, but the books (even those that posited that Polyhexian magic was in fact real) were dreadfully sparse with actual details.

That was part of her purpose in being in Hightower now, in fact. With the trade season begun, Polyhexian warriors-turned-merchants flooded the streets of the port city, bringing with them all sorts of unique items. Prowl wanted to gather samples for further study, to see if any of them really did contain magical properties. After all, some of her own spell components appeared perfectly mundane to the uninitiated optic. Perhaps she would be able to uncover something new and exciting.

Of course, the other reason she was here was to tour her kingdom with her newly betrothed. Starting in Hightower had been Prowl's choice, but it was not the only stop on their itinerary. From here they would be visiting the other Praxan cities of Greyfair, Rustvein, and Rustwick before heading back to the capital city of Praxus, then on to Iacon to see Arcee's country. The trip was meant to give both of them an opportunity to learn about each other's lands and just about each other. The arrangement had been in negotiations for nearly the last vorn, but Prowl had only met Arcee a few kilocycles ago when Arcee had come to the capital city of Praxus to officially begin their engagement.

She was quickly learning that Arcee was a femme with strong opinions.

“Uncivilized island heathens,” her intended muttered, hand going habitually to her sword belt as though she expected one of them to attack next. Her field sparked angrily when her fingers brushed the empty slot where her missing gladius should have been. “And thieves to boot!”

“There’s no point in pursuit now,” Prowl said, laying a hand on her arm as she started to turn. “She will already have disappeared into the crowd, and your sword with her.” The islander might not have understood Arcee’s words, but Prowl had seen the look on the femme’s face at her tone. She’d felt (rightly) insulted and, in the ways of her people, she’d taken compensation for the offense in lieu of offering a challenge.

Prowl thought that Arcee might still press the point, go back to the street where they’d encountered the Polyhexian femme and begin searching anyway, but then she deflated. “I suppose it’s not really worth starting a fight.”

She didn’t correct her intended: Polyhexians didn’t fight during the trade season. At all. The warrior was long gone with her prize, and no islander would help track down one of their kin over a stolen… anything, really. Not when they would feel she was entitled to it. Prowl didn’t agree with theft as an appropriate response to insult herself, but, by their traditions, the gladius now belonged to the Polyhexian fair and square. It was the reason she hadn’t spoken up when she’d spotted what the wild-looking femme had done.

“Come on,” she urged, trying to shift the subject and put the encounter behind them, “I hear someone calling that they’ve got sea gems for sale.”

Arcee smiled indulgently and followed Prowl.

The merchant — a red and blue Praxan named Smokescreen — smiled in welcome seeing his newest customers. “Princess! And Princess! Welcome!” Smokescreen gave an elaborate bow to the two heirs. “I am most honored by your patronage!”

“So you’ve said before,” Prowl said with a smile of her own. Smokescreen’s little establishment was one they had visited their first cycle in the market, and he had encouraged them to check back frequently. With traders coming and going daily, his (and many of the other merchants’) inventory was in constant flux, and the goods laid out before them bore little resemblance to the ones Prowl had seen last time. “I would be more than willing to make another purchase, if you have what I am looking for.”

“Come see,” Smokescreen said. “You never know just what you’re looking for until you see it.”

Previously Smokescreen had mostly had bowls, jars, knives, games, highgrade, beads, dice, and bronze and steel ingots for sale. Goods that would catch a passing Polyhexian’s attention. Given that desired clientele, Prowl had thought it strange that he’d had the sort of mortar and pestle she’d been looking for at the time, but Smokescreen had just shrugged his doors; he didn’t know what the islanders used them for, but he always sold out of the things. Now he had the goods those islanders had traded for his previous wares: steelbone and bismuthshell ornaments, glass beads in all colors turned milky by erosion, crystals with strange aura sheens in dozens of colors, and pearls made from strange sea-forged alloys.

Beautiful as the crystals and pearls were, Prowl went first to the ornaments. Some of them had carvings on them, shapes that almost looked like they could be writing. She picked up one, fashioned from the large tooth of some unknown creature of the Rust Sea and carved with almost-runes, strung on a cord with glass beads.

“What do these symbolize?” she asked, tracing the shapes with her thumb. The carvings had a quality that was simultaneously rough and polished, the sort of item that was both obviously handmade, but by someone with skill. “They’re beautiful.”

“Big tooth like that?” Smokescreen said. “It’s the story of the bravery and skill of the fishermech who brought in the creature.” The merchant reached out and ran his own fingers down the carving. “This one is the name of the mech’s spirit-guide, and this,” his fingers brushed over a different set of carvings, “is the spell.” He traced out the spiral in question, which went all the way around the tooth and back, like a ribbon wrapping around it rather than simply creating a flat spiral on one side. Prowl hadn’t seen the organization until Smokescreen pointed it out. “Together they tell the tale. I have a few stock stories,” he admitted, “that I tell interested mechs and femmes, but I won’t pretend I can read them for you, Princess. I can’t tell you exactly what this story says.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” Prowl said, truly grateful. It wouldn’t help her to have a false translation. In the hopes of somehow getting a real one, however, “I would still very much like to purchase this.” As one of the larger artifacts present, it had the largest number of almost-rune characters on it to work with, and besides — it was lovely.

“Are you sure?” Arcee asked, finishing her examination of the few blades Smokescreen had left. None of them apparently were good enough in her estimation to replace the stolen gladius. All of them were steelbone or bronze. Polyhexian knives. Short, utilitarian things designed to withstand the the corrosion of the Rust Sea that were nevertheless highly decorated and valued by some collectors. “It looks a bit outlandish to me.”

“Well, of course it does.” It _was_ outlandish, literally from another land. “That’s precisely why I want it. Would you be so kind,” she asked Smokescreen, handing over the ornament, “as to set this aside for me while I look over your selection of sea gems?” Rumor was that Polyhexians sometimes used them in their spells; perhaps that was why the mortar and pestles sold well? To grind them down for various magics? Regardless, Prowl could already see several crystals and pearls she wanted a closer look at.

Arcee huffed indulgently. “Try not to buy more than we can carry back this time,” she cautioned, and Prowl giggled at the reminder. She hadn’t _meant_ to get so carried away with the tapestries, but they had all had such fascinating depictions of island life and legend! It had been worth having to make multiple trips to bring them all back to the castle so they could be packed up for transport to the capital.

“Of course, m’lady,” Smokescreen acquiesced. “For such a good customer as yourself, I’ll even pack it up so it doesn’t get broken.” He proceeded to do just that, wrapping it in soft metalmesh and that into a small box. “Sea gems and pearls are both right over there.”

Smokescreen’s collection of pearls was small, but still larger than Prowl had seen outside the king’s own vault. Pearls were quite mysterious things. No one knew where the islanders found the tiny spheres of inscrutable alloys. Most were a soft gold color, like the yellow clouds at sunset, no two exactly the same shade. Silvery ones, some that reflected an aurora of colors back when the light hit them just right, were next most common. Then red; not a vibrant red, but still one too shiny to call at all dull. Then a foggy black, the color of stormclouds. The largest — one of the gold ones — was as big as Prowl’s thumb. Most of them were much smaller than that, the tiniest hardly bigger than grains of sand. Those were collected into a shell whose metallic, silvery inner surface had been stained by a dark, charcoal colored paint.

With the colors being indicators of different compositions, Prowl carefully selected a medium-sized one of each before sifting through the tinier ones. They would be easier to grind up and work with in small amounts, and she tried to get an assortment of each color there as well. Smokescreen helpfully provided a container for her so the pearls wouldn’t become lost, as would be frighteningly easy given their size. Once she had the ones she wanted, she turned her attention to the crystals. Those were just too diverse in color and shape for her to even begin making any sort of useful selection, and getting one of each was out of the question. Almost randomly she picked one of the brightest — a clear blue one she didn’t know the name of — and one of the dullest — a quartz full of smoky impurities and reddish pockets — for study.

“Thank you,” Prowl said once she had paid, tucking her purchases away in one of the pockets of her travelling bag. She didn’t need to have one of her guards carry something so small for her. “Before we go, I have one more favor to ask you.”

“Ask me anything, m’lady,” Smokescreen said gallantly. “I might even be able to grant it.”

“Where might we find a good selection of island additives for sale?” She had seen several mechs and femmes with flavored energon from Polyhexian vendors wandering the market, and had even tasted some herself, but had yet to locate a stall that sold the components not already mixed into drinks.

“And steel weapons,” Arcee added, before Smokescreen had a chance to answer. “I seem to be in need of a replacement.”

“Ah. Steel weapons can be purchased from the local blacksmith,” he answered. “Though how many such he’ll have left is debatable. They’re in very high demand this time of vorn,” a diplomatic way of saying they had probably been snapped up by the first wave of Polyhexian warrior-merchants to come to Hightower, “and he’ll be devoting most of his time to making knives, spearheads and harpoons. As for Polyhexian additives for energon,” Smokescreen turned his charming smile on Prowl, ignoring Arcee’s frustrated huff. “Those, I’m afraid, are not to be found for love, money, or love of money. Polys never sell the minerals unmixed.”

“Never? Not to anyone?” Prowl asked, willing to trade on her status if she had to, though she suspected it might not be of much use in this case. Polyhexians had little reason to differentiate amongst the “land-dwellers” beyond which kingdom they were from, and often not even that.

“I suppose it’s _possible_ that some Polys, somewhere, have sold the metals that give their energon its distinctive flavors, but if so I have not heard of it,” Smokescreen responded.

“Then I will have to make a quest of it to find them myself,” Prowl said amiably, undeterred despite the apparent dead end. “In the meantime I will simply enjoy what treats are available for purchase.” They had been out and about all morning, and she was starting to want something to drink now. Buying something from one of the vendors here would allow them to keep shopping without losing time going all the way back to the castle, and Prowl just knew Arcee was going to insist on checking with the blacksmith, regardless how unlikely they were to be successful there.

Sure enough, after a cheerful goodbye wave and a “Please stop by again!” from Smokescreen, that was exactly the direction Arcee turned them in. Prowl hid her smile and sent one of the guards for something she could sip along the way, ceding control of their itinerary for now to her intended.

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The central castle of Hightower was as high as the highest sea cliff Jazz had ever seen, and much, much smoother. The crevasses and cracks she was used to being able to dig her claws into to climb were greatly reduced or erased altogether. Unlike a sea cliff though, the bluish metallic rock of the mainlanders’ enormous mech-built cave wasn’t the corroded, chalky red substance that land became when it met the sea. Once Jazz’s claws were dug in, she had no fear of committing her weight to the sparse hand- and footholds.

Getting over the exterior wall had been the most difficult. It was guarded, and guarded well. Now, scaling the outside of the castle itself, Jazz was barely visible under the cover of darkness. The mechs wandering around the grounds hardly ever looked up, not nearly often enough to spot the femme as she scaled walls and scampered over rooftops.

She peeked into each window she came across until she found the one she sought: Prowl’s. Inside one of the rooms in the tallest tower, the gorgeous Praxan slept, hunched over a large, rectangular table covered with unfamiliar flat things and lit by a single lamp. Black and white plating gleamed in the dim light. Graceful doorwings relaxed, resting as she slept. Jazz could spend all night just looking at her. But she hadn’t climbed all this way just to look at her mate through a window.

Jazz wedged her fish-boning knife into the barest crack between the window and the pane, carefully prying them apart. The thin bronze easily cut through the copper and brass latch and hinges, allowing her to silently push the window out of its frame and set it to one side. Prowl didn’t even stir as the cool sea breeze was allowed into the even cooler room.

On silent feet, Jazz crept over to her sleeping future-bondmate. Curiously she picked up one of the sheets Prowl had fallen asleep working on. Thinner than the thinnest sailcloth, the flimsy sheet felt light and strange in her fingers. There were pictures on it, pictures of tiny, regularly repeating symbols, organized into neat lines. Jazz had seen merchants use symbols like these, but had never cared to examine them in detail before. She picked up another sheet, this time recognizing a diagram of the stars. She had no idea what the picture-outlines were supposed to be, or why it had so many lines on it, but she could recognize the stars themselves from their positions relative to each other easily enough. They looked like the view as it would appear from some distance inland. About three sunrises sail in a good wind, she estimated, if one _could_ sail over land. Why anyone would need a picture of the stars, Jazz couldn’t possibly guess, but her mate was obviously smart. Jazz liked this.

Prowl stirred minutely, and Jazz let the star picture fall from her clawed fingers, reminding herself that pictographs were not why she was here. She was here for Prowl.

Whispering the words of the spell of sleep, Jazz drew out the handful of glittering powders that would carry the magic from her lips to Prowl’s spirit. At the crescendo of the spell, she blew the powder into Prowl’s face, coating her graceful red chevron with sparkles. Prowl breathed it in. Her recharge evened out, and her almost negligible shifts and sleepy twitches ceased entirely. She went still, and didn't react at all when Jazz risked touching her. Perfect.

Jazz left Prowl there at the table while she searched out a good anchor point for the ropes. The best was a large statue, a series of nested brass-colored cylinders with glass inset at the top and bottom. The glass end of the largest cylinder was tilted at an angle towards the next window over, and the whole thing was mounted on a stainless steel base. It was heavy enough to take their combined weight without budging.

Wrapping Prowl in the harness she’d brought and then hooking her to the rope so she would not fall, Jazz proved her strength by carrying her to the window and carefully lowering her. When Prowl was safely on the roof of the lower part of the castle, Jazz followed, repeating the steps until she got her mate to the harpoon and second rope she’d left on the roof at the edge of the castle on her way up.

The harpoon burying itself in the comparatively softer metal of one of the smaller houses outside the large wall made a sound that attracted the attention of the guards patrolling atop it and Jazz waited, watching them carefully. If any of them looked up, she’d have to vacate this perch very quickly and leave her mate behind.

But this was why mates were wooed like this. If a suitor wasn’t even up to the challenge of getting her mate out of their dwelling, off their boat, or wherever, then obviously she wasn’t worthy. Jazz meant to prove herself worthy tonight and for all the nights to come.

Even if sometimes that worthiness depended on the favor of the gods, and luck.

Either the gods or luck were with Jazz tonight. She watched the guards investigate the sound, gathering like kawau birds over a school of tasty fish as they talked and talked and eventually talked themselves into believing the sound was nothing. All without looking up at Jazz’s zip line.

With a whispered spell for silence, Jazz hoisted Prowl to the line and hooked the harness over it, this time using a cloth soaked in the non-flammable lubricant of an ika fish to wrap the hardware so it would glide smoothly along the rope. Rather than just send her off to be hurt against the hard wall at the other end when she landed, Jazz wound a second cloth around her hand and looped it over the line, dousing it as well so they could slide down together.

It took effort not to let out an exhilarated war-whoop as they picked up speed. Halfway down the line, Jazz twisted so that she was falling in front of Prowl and braced for the impact—

 _Flumph!_ Jazz’s hydraulics screamed at her and warnings flashed over her optic band, but she landed as soft and silent as a free-floating spark, mate safely in her arms. She looked up at the oblivious guards and grinned. The first part of her plan was a success.

She hefted Prowl onto her shoulder before cutting her from the harness and dropping them both — silently — the last two mech-lengths to the ground, where she paused and checked her mate over for scuffs or scratches that would need to be buffed out before she woke. Nothing. Jazz grinned again. Prowl was going to be so happy for a mate as strong and clever and careful as Jazz!

From there she ghosted through the town. There were too many people to avoid entirely, but Jazz stuck to areas occupied mostly by Polyhexians, who called out soft catcalls and encouragements if they took notice of them at all. None of _them_ had any right to interfere; they weren’t related to Prowl.

The harbor was supposed to be guarded too, but those guards were lazy and lax during the trading season. Jazz spotted one sleeping at his post, while the other played a game of dice-in-a-cup with some friends. No one and nothing stopped her from setting Prowl down on her kattumaram and casting off with the next tide.

Above, the tiniest sliver of the waxing moon gleamed like a promise.

.

.

.

The cry of a gull penetrated Prowl’s dreams like the call of the circuit rooster at dawn. Groaning softly, she remembered falling asleep over her studies again and braced for the inevitable stiffness such oversight always resulted in… only to encounter none. Blinking sleepily, Prowl sat up slowly on the (comfortable!) sleeping pad she was resting on. The blanket draped over her fell away, revealing as it did that it wasn’t morning at all. The evening sun sparkled on the Rust Sea, reflecting the oranges, reds and pinks of the sky as it set on the horizon. It was breathtaking, though the unexpected sight of so much water all around her was what really caught in Prowl’s processor. Where _was_ she?

A soft melody — something Prowl had mistook for the wind — stopped, drawing her attention to the Polyhexian warrior sitting cross-legged on the deck of a small catamaran between its two long hulls, one of which she was currently tucked into. The same warrior from the market… when? Last cycle? It didn’t matter. The femme was still mostly white but had gotten a repaint and changed the pattern of her colors. Prowl recognized her almost more from her three unique necklaces: the tight choker made of mottled brown and pink shells and gold pearls with the tooth of some mechanimal hanging from the center, the three loops of tiny white shells strung like beads, and one that was a central ornament hanging from a cord of glass beads. On first glance it wasn’t much different than the one Prowl had bought from Smokescreen, only where that one was a large tooth with the maybe-runes telling some story, this was another shell, a spiral shaped one with four small holes drilled in it. Like the ornament she’d bought, it too was strung on a strand of glass beads, but instead of being every color glass could be made in, in a multitude of natural shapes, these were cloudy, sea worn beads of various shades of blue that were all perfectly spherical.

Unlike in the city, where she’d carried only a large bag of trade-goods and a knife, now the warrior carried a smaller pouch and a large cone-shaped shell, both secured to her waist by a wide stainless steel armored belt. A bolas hung from the other side of the belt, while a collection of small knives of bronze, steel, and bone were strapped to one leg. Arcee’s gladius was wrapped securely in oiled brasscloth and bundled with a handful of harpoons across her back. On the deck, within easy reach, was a longer, bronze-tipped spear, decorated with feathers.

Lowering the copper pennywhistle from her lips, the warrior smiled brightly at Prowl. “Awake? Yes? You,” she said, haltingly, in the trade argot. “Hungry?”

Prowl’s tanks pinged insistently, but eating was the very _last_ thing on her mind at the moment. “Where are we?” She looked around, taking in the small sailing craft they were on and the crystal forested shore, both unfamiliar and far enough away that the only way she could reach it would be by magic. It looked like they were anchored in a small lagoon or bay of sorts, but that was all the surroundings gave away. “Why am I here?” This was the trading season! It was supposed to be safe!

“Safe,” the warrior soothed, almost as if reading her thoughts, then growled out an unfamiliar Polyhexian word. Prowl recognized the root word for _link,_ the sorts of links that were god-decreed and permanent like the link between the tides and the moon, or between wind and waves. It was modified by a time word, roughly translated as _precursor._ “Where.” The warrior continued, answering Prowl’s first question; she obviously understood at least some Praxan, but continued speaking in the trade argot — a language very much _not_ designed for the information she was now trying to convey. “Hightower,” she pointed, “sail, sunrise to sunset, half. Stop here. Food. Rest. Paint!” The warrior brandished a bowl shaped shell filled with black paint enthusiastically (though she was careful to keep the pigment off her bracelets), dipping one finger into it and quickly, before Prowl could react, drawing a line across both her cheeks. “Mine.”

 _Hers?_ Prowl sat in silence, too stunned to even flinch, trying to put the pieces together. The warrior didn’t seem hostile, for all that she had somehow managed to kidnap Prowl from her observatory in the castle. Now they were roughly a cycle’s sail away from the city and this femme was claiming she was hers? Something tugged at her memory, something she had read about Polyhexians and their traditions. Something about kidnapping and claiming— “I’m not your mate!” Prowl exclaimed, struggling to believe this was really happening. “That’s absurd!”

“Not yet,” the warrior said easily, pulling out another shell, this one with a clear paste the same consistency as the black paint. She repeated that word — _precursor to permanent link_ — insistently. Then she swirled a finger through the clear paste, one not covered in black paint, and, with a whispered word Prowl had no hope of translating, retraced the black marks she had drawn on Prowl’s face. Whatever protest Prowl might have had was driven entirely out of her mind by the sudden flare of luminescence on her cheeks, the paint lighting up in a bright, bluish glow.

“Mine,” the warrior declared happily.

Prowl watched the femme make a pair of identical marks on her own face, the resulting glow mirroring the angle of her visor with the sort precision that could only have come from practice. Despite her situation, Prowl was fascinated. She had never heard of glowing paint before! True, she could mark things and make them glow with her Arcane Mark spell, but this was something else entirely. She itched to know if the two pigments were naturally reactive to each other to produce the light, or if the warrior was doing something with that complicated utterance to cause it.

Setting aside the paint-filled shells, the warrior dropped into the hollow next to her, causing the boat to tilt alarmingly, though thankfully only briefly, and cuddled against Prowl. She stroked — _far too familiarly!_ — over Prowl’s chest. “Hungry?” she asked again. “Move again soon. First east star rise. Eat before that. More paint. Then move.”

“Please take your hands off me,” Prowl said, pushing her arm away. Then, realizing she was still speaking in Praxan, repeated herself in the trade argot. “Don’t touch.” Not that there was enough room in the narrow hull for them not to touch at all, but she could stop letting her hands wander all over! “Not mates.”

“Yes mate,” the warrior insisted, though she obligingly stopped _petting_ Prowl like they were already lovers. “Big castle. Big challenge. Take.” Again that word, _precursor to permanent link,_ then she helpfully clarified. “Mate!”

Prowl wished she could remember which tome she’d read about this particular tradition in. Of course it hardly mattered, since she didn’t have any of her books with her… Oh no! “My spellbook!” she blurted out in Praxan, frantically looking around for it even though she knew it was futile. Her spellbook, like all the other books she’d been working with the night before, had been laid out on the table, not in its satchel at her side. That she did find, and was relieved to see that the pockets containing her spell components were still full (as was the one with her purchases from Smokescreen), but the book was indeed missing. “You, take, bring any things?” she asked, searching the warrior’s face.

The warrior only looked quizzical. “Not take anything. Only bring that,” she pointed to the satchel. “Here. Have this,” she reached into the pouch at her side and held out a necklace. A choker, like hers, with bone beads and pearls and a small circular flat star shell where the warrior’s had a tooth. “Yours. This one make.”

Relaxing somewhat, knowing that if the book had been left undisturbed, Arcee would find and safeguard it for her, Prowl reached for the necklace to look at it. The warrior laid it out across her palms, letting the ends of the cord trail over her fingers. It was well-made, and Prowl looked up at the other femme, impressed in spite of herself. “You make? Really?”

“Yes!” the warrior said proudly. She tapped the flat shell. “Star shell, for teaching stars. Like your…” she trailed off, struggling for the word. “Flat thing,” she settled on. “Common, but fragile. Inlanders like. Pay three bolts of sailcloth for one,” and _that_ sounded slightly incredulous, like she couldn’t quite believe that inlanders were so silly. “So use for you.”

“Flat thing?” A flat thing with stars… “The star chart?” The islander obviously didn’t understand, but Prowl didn’t try to explain it. Instead she traced the edges of the shell delicately, well aware of how fragile they were. By the time any were brought inland far enough to be sold in the capital they were worth a lot more than three bolts of sail cloth! She’d had a larger one long ago that had broken, crumbling along the edges where it had cracked. This one was still whole and perfect. Thoughtful, too, if the warrior had chosen it for her based on seeing her chart. “It very nice.”

That earned a broad smile, the warrior showing off her bright teeth and slightly elongated canines. “This one make. Mate gift!” She hefted herself out of the hull and back onto the catamaran’s deck. “More paint? Food? Which?”

Prowl sat thinking about far more than the simple question. The necklace rested in her hand, shining softly under the setting sun. She wasn’t sure what to do with it. Between the star shell and the pearls — all in the rarer red color, she noted absently — it was worth as much as her tiara (which she’d left at the capital so she wouldn’t misplace it in her distraction). Clearly she was meant to wear it, but would doing so indicate she was accepting something she had no desire to? What _had_ that tome said about the islander’s tradition for taking mates?

The kidnapping was ritualistic, that much she was certain of. The warrior had called it a challenge, and that was the point of it — to prove a potential mate’s courage and skill. A mech or femme who wasn’t capable of capturing a mate wasn’t deserving of one, hence the test: to kidnap and keep their chosen mate for a lunar cycle. Prowl had no doubt Arcee would lead the guard in coming after her — was probably forming them up now, given how long she’d been gone, in fact — but rescue attempts were expected, to further prove a warrior’s skill by thwarting them. This femme would be expecting pursuit, and prepared to evade it.

Prowl’s best chance for rescue would be to escape herself; the sooner the better, before they wound up even farther away from Hightower, or the mainland in general. Reaching the shore from the center of the lagoon would be difficult enough. There would be no escaping once they were out on the open sea.

In that light, fueling up and keeping the warrior distracted so she _didn’t_ take them out to sea was probably her best course of action. “Food,” Prowl finally answered, stowing the necklace carefully in her satchel to free her hands. “Please.”

Exuberantly, the warrior scampered across the deck and pulled up a rope. A sodden crate full of… things came up with it. They had hard flatish red shells, long pincers and several spindly legs that waved about in the air. When the crate was secure on the deck, the islander reached fearlessly into the crate to pull out one of the things, then closed it up, kicking it back into the water. Then she brought the thing over to Prowl and sat down on the deck next to her again.

Humming, she pulled a knife and with a single, quick thrust of the bronze point into the creature’s underside stopped its struggles instantly. The wound oozed blue energon, but the warrior ignored it as she continued to carve up the critter, slicing away the entire undershell, cutting away the pincers and legs, and prying out the solid internals until she had a shallow bowl made from the smooth top shell, filled with the creature’s energon. Absently she licked stray energon from her fingers to clean them before setting to her task again. This time she deliberately cut into the shell of one of the pincers to let the energon from that part flow out to join the rest, repeating with the other, and the legs, until she had all the creature’s energon (with reddish flakes floating in it!) collected into the hollow top shell.

Then, with an inviting smile, she held out the shell bowl to Prowl.

Good manners dictated Prowl accept it, though she did so mechanically in a state of shock over what she’d just witnessed. The energon was still _warm_ from having been inside a functioning mechanimal only a few nanokliks ago! It was completely unprocessed, unfiltered… how was she supposed to drink this?! She stared at it, the desire for fuel warring in her processor with the unsettled feeling that watching it be “prepared”, if it could be called that, caused in her tanks. She could only imagine what Arcee would have to say about it!

_“How can you drink that stuff? It’s got all sorts of impurities floating in it. Those barbarians ought to consider changing the filters they use more often.”_

Prowl blinked, not having to imagine those words at all. While she had been interested in trying all the different blends available at the market, Arcee had refused to ingest anything of island origins, though she’d had plenty to say about them (and would, she did imagine, have much more to say if she discovered their _true_ origins). The memory triggered another, of Smokescreen telling her that the islanders didn’t sell their additives unmixed— “Because they come premixed!” She laughed, looking again at the shell in her hand. Except for the way it was served, it resembled one of the cocktails she’d enjoyed their first cycle in the city. Reservations dashed, Prowl lifted the shell to her lips and drank. It tasted exactly the same. Maybe better.

The warrior smiled, showing off her teeth again, then retrieved a second creature from the waterlogged crate and butchered it the same as the first for her own meal. Which she drank, making a loud slurping sound that precluded making any sort of conversation.

She saved all the extra parts, though Prowl couldn’t imagine for what. Maybe to feed the ones she had stored in the overboard crate?

“Paint now,” she said decisively when they were both finished. “Then move.”

Paint Prowl could deal with. She wanted to watch the process that illuminated it again anyway. “Paint what? Why?” she asked, handing back her now-empty shell to… “What you name?”

“Jazz. Means…” Here the warrior, Jazz, struggled with a translation again. “Means make music, like wind. Never same twice. Great warrior! Great food-finder! Great sailor!” she bragged as she gathered up the two shells with the paint and dropped back into the hull with Prowl with another unsettling lurch of the boat. Deftly she dipped her finger into the black paint and put a long streak down Prowl’s chest… right where the armor over her spark would open during passion. “Good mate.”

“Oh!” Prowl jerked back in surprise, causing the end of the line to be a little ragged, which seemed to please rather than upset the enthusiastic painter. “Paint for mate? This one not mate to Jazz. This one mate to Arcee.” Or she would be, once their betrothal period was complete and the bonding ceremony held. “Soon-mate,” she elaborated as best she could in the limited trade argot.

“Not good mate to Prowl. No gift. No paint mark. Can take. Mine now,” Jazz insisted. Then, with the same whispered word from before, painted the black streak over with the clear, making the line glow. “Mark mine. No one take from Jazz. Can’t. Not until mark gone.”

Was that what the paint meant? That those warriors Prowl had seen in the market wearing it were mated, and therefore couldn’t be taken by another? If so, then by Polyhexian standards, Prowl supposed what Jazz said was true. The warrior obviously knew who she was, knew her name, but there were no external marks of her engagement. The legal contracts binding the arrangement were back in Hightower Castle with the rest of her possessions and written only in Praxan and Iaconi. Even if she and Arcee were already bonded, there would be very little to indicate that status to an islander looking for jewelry or paint marks. Matching accents and helm kibble would mean nothing to Jazz.

Prowl reached up to rub at the paint. However the reaction/spell worked, it was now fully cured and as resistant to scratching or washing off as the rest of her colors. “How,” trade argot didn’t have very many good time words, “many sunrises mark last?” If it wasn’t permanent, perhaps it just meant that Jazz had staked a claim on her, not that they were officially mated.

“Moon,” Jazz sketched a thin arc into the air, perfectly matching the thin crescent the moon had been in last night. “Mark last until moon,” she sketched a full circle, then sent the boat rocking as she scrambled to get around Prowl to put streaks of the glowing paint on her doorwings.

Glowing paint that was still glowing. The initial streaks Jazz had put on both Prowl and herself continued to shed light. Fascinating, but also frustrating. The paint would make Prowl stand out like a beacon in the night, making it very difficult to hide. She only had one, minor, invisibility spell memorized, and without her spellbook there was no way to cast another. After that single use was expended, evading Jazz would depend on her ability to hide using mundane means — a task made much more difficult by the fact that she literally glowed in the dark now.

Then again, so did Jazz, just a little bit. The lines on her face would be simple to cover, small as they were, but if she were wearing the same full-body marks Prowl was, it would be easier to spot her stirring in her sleep or giving chase. Only, she didn’t seem to be putting any more paint on herself.

Prowl considered. Was she supposed to do it? Did she _want_ to do it?

Another whispered spell over the clear coat and Prowl had one more set of glowing stripes along the leading edges of her doorwings. They flicked reflexively even though there was no need to fan them dry. If she were going to hazard a guess, painting Jazz probably wouldn’t signify any more of a commitment than Jazz painting her, and would have the advantage of making her easier to evade. Plus… Prowl’s optics followed the shell of black paint curiously. She wanted to know how it worked!

The desire to learn had her reaching for the shell almost before she’d consciously made the decision.

Jazz spotted the movement immediately. She made a happy noise. “Prowl mark Jazz?”

“Yes.” Prowl wasn’t going to back out now. “Jazz show Prowl how paint?”

The warrior’s engine made a happy rumble as she dropped back down to sit next to Prowl. She held out the shell filled with black paint. “Put black here,” she traced her own chest-seam.

Feeling somewhat awkward about it, Prowl dipped her fingers in the paint and set them against Jazz’s plating, drawing them down along that intimate seam. It made the other femme make a purring, lustful sound that almost had Prowl pulling away. But she persevered. “Then?”

“Other hand. Mix paint no spell ruins. Wake-light fish ink hard to food-find.” Obligingly, Prowl used her unsoiled hand to dip into the clear paint paste. “Now say _mitnesimeage!”_ The word did not _sound_ Polyhexian at all. Not like the words the trade argot borrowed, nor like any Prowl had heard or studied before. A language of magic? “Say!” Jazz insisted, when Prowl had hesitated too long.

“Mit-ness-meag.” Prowl knew she hadn’t gotten it right without Jazz’s helpful frown and helmshake. “Mitny-semage?” Oh Primus, that had been even worse! “Say again?” she asked, needing to hear the word another time.

“Mit-ne,” Jazz said slowly. “Si,” this one was a soft sound, close to _shi,_ “Mea-ge.” Soft again. _Zhe._

“Mitneshi— si, mitnesi,” Prowl corrected herself, “Mitnesi-meage. Mitnesimeage.” She looked to Jazz to check her pronunciation and, at the warrior’s smile, said it again while drawing the clear paste over the black line on her chest. _“Mitnesimeage.”_ Light flared beneath her fingers as the glow came to life, whether by chemistry, the incantation, or both.

“Yes!” Jazz praised. “Good! Now no one take Jazz.” She grinned.

“No one take,” Prowl agreed, mentally including herself in that statement. Romantic as the islanders might find being kidnapped, to Prowl it was impractical and more than a little inconvenient. She didn’t have a whole lunar cycle to spend being wooed! Not even by Arcee; the time they had together to tour each other’s kingdoms was a working vacation, not for them to indulge entirely how they pleased. The trading season might be less structured and rigid for Polyhexians, but Prowl was Praxan. That meant only short excursions were permissible around her duties and responsibilities, and even then she had to be accessible. The thought of everything she would have to catch up on when she got back after only a few cycles away was dispiriting.

Wanting to make Jazz stand out as much as possible, Prowl reached up with the black paint to daub it onto the short protrusions on top of the other femme’s helm. _“Mitnesimeage,”_ she chanted, lighting them both up. It actually looked kind of cute, and she added a pair of dots to her shoulders as well. Jazz added matching dots to Prowl, on her chevron, then on her shoulders.

But all of the glowing paint was on Jazz’s front, and Prowl wanted to be able to see her from behind too. Unthinking, she started to stand — the catamaran rocked beneath her — and she lost her balance, falling forward. “Oh no!” She was going to spill the paint!

Jazz reacted almost faster than Prowl could believe, reaching forward to catch her, push her back down into her seat, and steady the shell so that only a single dark splash spilled on Prowl’s leg plating. With a snicker she quickly painted clear over the black, immortalizing Prowl’s near-miss with the glowing splashmark.

Prowl could tell the almost-fall greatly amused Jazz, though she didn’t say anything teasing. “Thank you,” she said for the save, though she frowned at the splotch on her paint. It really was the least of her problems, but it annoyed her all the same. She didn’t like it any better when she messed up copying a manuscript or spell. “I was simply trying to—” wrong language, Jazz didn’t understand— “paint Jazz back? Same as wings?” She fanned her doorwings for emphasis, noting that the air was cooler now. There was still some light in the sky, but the sun was gone beneath the horizon.

“Yes.” _Jazz_ made standing up and moving around the boat look easy as she crawled up onto the deck just long enough to turn herself around, presenting her back to Prowl. “Dots,” she said. “Lines. Follow armor. No free curves.” But accidental splashes were alright? Prowl supposed they must be, though she certainly wasn’t going to _pretend_ to make such errors.

Following Jazz’s instructions, she added a series of lines to the warrior’s back, accenting them with dots until they formed a simplified, geometric set of glowing wings. “Done,” Prowl announced when she was satisfied. The lines would be easily visible in the dark — they stood out more and more now as the light faded — and they looked nice too. She could have done a neater job with a brush, perhaps, but still nice. Jazz was certainly happy with the design. What she could see of it, anyway. Prowl told herself she didn’t _care_ if Jazz was happy with the design; she had only made it to even the playing field when it came to escaping and evading Jazz’s pursuit.

Unfortunately Jazz wasn’t happy enough to distract her from her plans to move as soon as the first star rose in the east. Instead of taking the shells and returning to painting Prowl (who now had fewer glowing lines and dots than Jazz did), the islander scrambled up on the deck. She hefted at the creature-cage rope, dumping it on the deck, then began to haul at another rope with something much heavier attached. The anchor, Prowl supposed.

“Wait! Where go?” Prowl asked, trying not to sound too desperate. They needed to stay close to the shore for her to have any hope of escape!

Jazz looked at her, tilting her head noncommittally. “Away.” The vague answer could have been due to the limitations of the trade argot, but this time Prowl didn’t think so. Jazz was being imprecise on purpose. “Keep you. Mate.”

“But,” Prowl cast about for a reason, any reason, to hug the coast, “this one afraid deep water.” Which was true, now that she was thinking about it. She _was_ afraid to go out on the open sea over deep water where she couldn’t escape, couldn’t be rescued, where she could fall out of this wobbly little boat and sink and sink and sink until the pressure was crushing and all sorts of monsters rose from the depths— “Please!”

Jazz dumped the anchor — which turned out to be made from a neat arrangement of rocks on the end of the rope — on the deck, letting the catamaran drift while she flew to Prowl’s side, making an unfamiliar, alien sound of comfort. “Coo~rru, coo~rrru,” she said, petting Prowl. “Jazz good sailor. Best. Bounce-Shot and this one, we sail through big storms. Big, big. So big calm part in middle big as island. Jazz take care of Prowl. You see.”

“Please,” Prowl repeated, deliberately _not-thinking_ about thunderstorms and hurricanes. She’d only been out on the water a handful of times in her life, and only ever on large vessels under calm skies with a captain she could trust to bring her back at the end of the cycle. “Please, Prowl want, _need_ see land.”

“Coo~rrru,” the sound trilled, like nothing Prowl had heard before. “Coo~rru, coo~rru… Yes. Will stay. Can see.” Jazz petted Prowl, slid into the hull to hold her. “Promise. Take care of Prowl.” She grinned crookedly. “Stay anyway. No fair go where Are-See no can chase. Fair!” She petted Prowl again. “Still, away from here. Away from Hightower. We sail.”

 _Fair?_ Jazz was going to play fair? Why would she do that?

…Why _wouldn’t_ she do that? For all that they were called barbarians, Polyhexians were known to live (and die) by their codes. They respected the trade season, respected each other, respected their rites and rituals. Perhaps Prowl could trust that to Jazz, capturing and keeping a mate meant nothing if it wasn’t done the right way?

She looked up into Jazz’s face, the warrior’s arms around her unexpectedly comforting. “I want to believe you,” she said softly in Praxan. “Show me I can believe you.”

Jazz looked at her quizzically, not understanding. “Coo~rru, coo~rru… Fair. Promise.” She hugged Prowl tighter for a moment, petting her helm and back and doorwings. Prowl felt her fingers dip into her satchel, pulling out the necklace she’d made. With a soft smile and gentle affection, Jazz slipped it around Prowl’s neck and deftly knotted the cords in the back. She caressed the necklace, and Prowl’s throat, then tweaked the star shell hanging from the center. “Okay now? We sail.”

“…Okay,” Prowl agreed, reaching up to finger the pearls laying against her neck. The smooth spheres felt soft and cool, though they warmed quickly with the heat of her frame. What a picture she must make, covered in glowing tribal paint and wearing an island necklace. “You keep promise?” she asked. “Prowl can trust?”

Jazz huffed, sounding offended. “Yes,” she assured. Simple as that. Then her expression turned sly. “And you no… stop sail.”

One last hug, and a not-purely-chaste caress, and Jazz hopped back up onto the deck. She picked up a paddle and used it to push them further from the shore. It went more quickly than Prowl would have guessed a single paddle could move the comparatively large catamaran.

Prowl refused to let hopelessness set in. Jazz was honorable — she’d _promised_ — and the paint would wear off, meaning they weren’t mated yet. She could still return with no harm done to anyone. All she had to do was escape and meet up with her rescuers…

There was a problem with that though, she realized. Arcee was too honorable not to mount a pursuit, but her misconceptions about Polyhexians and the assumption that any mech who’d kidnap a hostage had to be a most dishonorable foe would send her off in the wrong direction. She’d commandeer one of Hightower’s few large trading ships, load it up with guards, and head out into the Rust Sea looking for the Islands of Polyhex. A futile effort since there were no maps to the islands, and the Hightower sailors were only comfortable sailing the set routes between coastal trading cities, besides being the wrong direction entirely!

She watched the nearest land recede out of the range of all but her farthest ranged spells, though it wasn’t like it’d be any use to send her Snapdragon Fireworks to shore. Even for marking a trail; scorchmarks on the crystal and copperwood trees wouldn’t help Arcee and the guards find her if they didn’t even know where to start looking.

Perhaps not to shore then… As the boat moved out of the lagoon, Prowl saw Hightower, its shining lights still visible in the distance, though if Jazz had her way it wouldn’t be for long. They were headed away from the city. But if she could still see the city, then they could still see her — theoretically.

Jazz was absorbed in her task, so the islander didn’t take any notice of Prowl digging through her bag for her spell components and pulling out a bit of sulfur wrapped in flimsy. A word, a gesture, and the paper burned up and the sulfur turned to sparkles around her hands.

With another gesture, she sent a firework straight up, six-hundred feet into the air where it exploded with a _bang!_

Jazz squawked in alarm and dropped the paddle to the deck to grab at her and stop her from signaling. Instinctively she sent a second firework at Jazz, who made another sound of alarm as she tried to scramble out of the way and failed, leaving her temporarily stunned. The explosion so close nearly dazed Prowl as well, but she was expecting it, and used her reprieve to send off two more fireworks into the air, as high as she could.

The fifth fizzled as Jazz, no longer stunned, snatched her hands to keep her from sending up any more. “You stop!”

Prowl looked up into the warrior’s optic band, afraid she’d see rage. She didn’t know what she’d _do_ if Jazz turned violent…

Instead she saw amusement, and approval.

“Why aren’t you mad…?” She lapsed back into Praxan.

Jazz _coo~rru’ed,_ seemingly understanding the tone, if not the words. “Strong, clever… good mate to Jazz. This one prove worthy! Promise!” She rubbed her thumb over Prowl’s caught fingers. “Good thing. Not mad.” Her expression turned sly again. “Not let Prowl do again, though.”

Prowl didn’t correct Jazz’s assumption that she _could_ do that again. The spell was gone from her mind; the only way to recall it, or any spell, without her spellbook was through her bonded ring, which was limited to a single use each cycle — as long as Jazz didn’t take it from her. That might keep her from running out of magic entirely, but her best chance to escape would be while she still had most of her spells available, and that meant saving them. But Jazz couldn’t know that, being unfamiliar with the specifics of her magic. So she wasn’t at all surprised to find herself divested of her pouch — though it was only taken out of reach, rather than away altogether — and her hands bound gently but firmly with a thin rope.

With one final check that the ropes wouldn’t chafe and were secure, Jazz tucked the blanket Prowl had woken up under back over her and scrambled back to the paddle.

The tides had carried them further out, so instead of resuming her paddling, Jazz stowed it and raised the sail. Prowl lay still, watching her graceful and sure movements. The signal was out. There was nothing to do now but bide her time and start planning. Escaping a second time if Jazz recaptured her would be far more difficult, she knew, so she couldn’t allow it to happen.

.

.

.

Arcee didn't see Prowl at breakfast. That wasn't unusual. The Praxan Princess had a habit of staying up late and falling asleep over her work and didn't often make the breakfast table with the early risers like her. It wasn't a schedule Arcee could imagine keeping; where a scholar's cycle ran late, a warrior's began early. It was just one of the many ways in which she and her intended were different. Yet for all her oddities, Prowl had a good spark. Arcee liked her, even after knowing her only a few kilocycles. They could make their union work, and work well, even if they hadn't chosen it for themselves.

In the spirit of accommodating each other's quirks, Arcee made sure the servants put aside a portion of the morning meal for her intended, then went out into the yard for her morning exercises. Turning so she faced the Temple (the one in Iacon, not any of the local shrines or temples), she set to clearing her mind. The ritual forms of the Iaconi Knighthood required dedication and focus. There was no room for distractions.

As usual, she finished just before it was time to head out into the city. Prowl wanted to continue her search for additives, ingredients, and arcane components, even if it meant mingling and bartering with the barbarians that washed up on the shores of Hightower like so much flotsam and jetsam this time of the vorn. Arcee failed to see how the backwards islanders could have anything of value to the sophisticated art of magecraft, but Prowl insisted that it would be foolish to overlook them for being uncivilized, violent, heathens with no concept of personal space or belongings.

Even if she hadn't used those words. Prowl had simply called them, “different”.

Arcee still didn't see her when she went back inside, however. Normally Prowl would be waiting for her, shuffling through her lists and chatting with their escort. Instead, there was only one guard standing alone and looking anxious.

"Is something the matter?" she asked, optics narrowing as his nervousness increased at her approach. "What's happened?"

"It's… it's the Princess, your Highness," the mech answered, visibly steeling himself to continue. "It appears she was spirited out of her tower sometime in the night… by a Polyhexian warrior."

"What!" Any calm Arcee had achieved in her devotions scattered to the winds. "How? When was this discovered?" And why was she only just _now_ hearing about it? It was mid-morning already! "Nevermind," she wasn't going to waste any _more_ time with this mech, "take me to the captain at once!"

"Yes, your Highness."

It wasn't a long walk to the astronomy tower. When they arrived at the top and the night guard captain saw them, he apologized immediately and repeated exactly what the first guard had already told her. Arcee speared him with a glare. “Really. And would you care to tell me how you _missed_ the _barbarian_ making off with your _PRINCESS_ **_?”_ **

Nervously the guard recounted everything he and his subordinates had seen and heard. There had been nothing unusual, only the usual assortment of sights and sounds of their occasionally raucous trade-season visitors. Sometimes the Polyhexians, in a fit of over-energized bravado, would dare each other to sneak in close to the castle, or mark up the walls with lewd graffiti. There had been several such attempts last night, but _no one_ had gotten past _them!_

Except obviously someone had. Arcee seethed as she listened to the guard’s excuses and watched the servants scurry about the Princess’s study. Very little had been disturbed. All of Prowl’s books — including her spellbook! — were still on the table, and various small, easily portable valuables remained in their places. The only thing missing was the princess herself.

As if they’d needed any more confirmation that it had been one of the barbarians than the harpoon used to anchor the zip line with its gleaming steelbone tip and spurs and charcoal blackened shaft, the city’s Lord brought a ropemaker and blacksmith to analyze the other clues the kidnapper had left behind. Both only confirmed it: the ropemaker identified the multicolored metallic flecks woven into the nylon that was distinctive of Polyhexian made ropes, and the blacksmith was certain that either a bronze or a steel blade could have sliced the latches on the window, but only an island bronzesmith would make one thin enough to fit through the almost non existent crack between the window and its setting.

Yet the Lord refused to declare any sort of hostilities towards the barbarians!

Arcee brushed past the still stammering guard captain to search the mech out herself.

She found the Lord Ultra Magnus already down at the docks organizing a party of soldiers and arranging for a ship to set sail. Arcee was slightly mollified that he wasn’t ignoring this, but it also didn’t look like he was planning on rounding up all the islanders, questioning them, then evicting them from the city in preparation for declaring war.

“My Lord!” she hailed him as she approached. “Is this how Praxus responds to an act of war? With a single ship and no attempts to interrogate possible conspirators?”

“Princess Arcee, of _Iacon,”_ he greeted with the deferential bow due their relative stations, but the stress the large mech put on her country of origin was unmistakable. “Acting impulsively will not serve anyone. The Princess must be found and returned straight away, of course. However, we cannot take hostile action against _Polyhex itself_ until we know _if_ this was actually an act of war.”

“How can kidnapping your Princess _not_ be considered an act of war?” Arcee demanded, though she did recognize that the Lord’s authority exceeded her own in his own city. She and Prowl were not yet bonded; she could not issue orders in her stead. But she could (and would!) ask as many questions as she had to! “Surely such a feat could not have been accomplished by a single mech or femme.”

“I’ve sent for a scryer to give us a detailed account of the events surrounding the Princess’s disappearance. That will tell us how many were involved. But one or many, there is one undeniable fact I must take into consideration.” Ultra Magnus paused, impressing upon her the severity of what he was about to say. “This is the _trade season_ for Polyhexians. I do not profess to be an expert on the islands, but if there is one thing Hightower has known since its founding it is that there _are no wars_ during the trade season. Therefore, finding out what happened, and why, is _imperative._ If this was not an act of war, then it is a misunderstanding of some sort. If it is, then we must know what has changed to prompt such during a season of peace. Either way, we cannot proceed without more information.”

“But what reason could there be for taking the Princess hostage, if not for war?” This time she was genuinely asking rather than accusing. Arcee couldn’t think of any other reason for the barbarians to go to so much trouble — no other reason that didn’t bode ill for Prowl, at least. Who knew what sort of perverse rituals the barbarians indulged in that might require a sacrifice? “They… surely they won’t have hurt her?”

“If they have, they will regret it deeply,” Ultra Magnus promised. “But we simply have no way of knowing what purpose taking the Princess serves. It is my hope that we will be able to attract at least one islander to come forward and inform us as to what might be going on.”

“Can’t you—” Arcee stopped herself mid-sentence. No, of course he couldn’t demand that they reveal what was going on. Without a declaration of war, the islanders had diplomatic protections as traders and visitors and could not be coerced into providing information. She didn’t have much hope for anyone coming forward voluntarily, however. The barbarians were a tight-knit group, thick as the thieves they were. “How are you hoping to attract any of them?” she asked instead. “They don’t turn on their own.”

“I plan to bribe them.” Ultra Magnus’ face was too somber for a smile, but his field flickered with a brief expression of humor. “Everything is for sale in Hightower during the trade season. We simply need to find the right price to buy one mech’s temporary loyalty. The initial bid I sent out was fifty bars each of copper and tin. I’m sure that somewhere in the city, it will find the mech we need.”

.

.

.

Meanwhile, out in the city, Smokescreen had every intention of that mech being him. He rather liked Prowl (her betrothed was a bit surly, but seemed like a good sort) and while _he_ might not know why the Princess had been taken, he had plenty of connections to the various Polyhexian traders, both groups and individuals, in Hightower. He was confident that he could find out what he needed to claim the reward. And why not? His business was in trading city goods for island ones, then selling _those_ to inlanders as luxuries, jewelry and delicacies. A hundred bars of copper and tin? He could trade that for a lot of seashells, which in turn could buy a ton of beads, which could buy a lot of energon… which would very nicely finance his continued existence for the next vorn. Maybe two.

Ultimately, Smokescreen just wanted to make enough each trade season so he could spend the rest of the vorn living in a modest flat, wiling away the time with card and dice games with friends without accumulating debts. It was a small dream, but Smokescreen didn’t pretend to aspire to any greater heights. And Polyhexians LOVED gambling, which was just another reason to trade with them, in his opinion.

But Smokescreen knew better than to count his money while still sitting at the table. First, he needed information to take to Lord Ultra Magnus.

He didn’t know why no Polyhexian had taken the Lord up on his offer yet. Islanders were incorrigible gossips, usually eager to trade material goods for a story, a song, a juicy tidbit of news, or a whiff of scandal. Smokescreen should know, given how many times he’d conned a handful of shells or beads out of one by recalling the words of some Praxan song the warrior he was buying from had never heard before. The Lord’s offer should have been snapped up by the first Polyhexian to hear about it.

So… weird.

Of course, if no one was willing to trade that information to the lord directly, there wouldn’t be anyone willing to tell Smokescreen either. But Smokescreen wasn’t about to give up so easily. He had one thing Ultra Magnus didn’t: the ability to buy and sell information in smaller chunks. Instead of asking about the one big thing no one was willing to talk about, he put out a bowl of dice. They were just common plastic things, but Polyhexians liked games, gambling and the implements thereof. Even if they couldn’t read the numbers; sometimes Smokescreen was sure they made up their own meanings for the incomprehensible (to them) squiggles. Which was why all the dice Smokescreen sold used pips to denote their value. And these were brightly colored, in a variety of polyhedron shapes. The sort of thing that would make any islander want a handful at least. He set them in full view, tantalizingly close to his other goods. Then he gossiped. And for each useful morsel, he gave the Polyhexian who’d shared it with him one or two randomly chosen dice. If it was something extremely useful, he’d pick out a few with colors that matched. Matching colors were an indicator of wealth to Polys, whether they were talking beads, shells, pearls, or dice sets.

Word got around — via gossip, of course — and soon Smokescreen’s booth was _the_ place to come and share whatever news sounded interesting.

Soon he had quite the picture of what was going on amongst the islanders. Who was coming, with what goods, what tribe was seeking mediation for what offenses… and, most importantly, who was leaving the city. Specifically, who had _already_ left, in a hurry, last night, leaving her very pissed off twin stranded in Hightower.

Asking directly about Jazz and why she might have taken the princess was useless, but asking about _Ricochet_ very quickly bore fruit. The femme’s plight was a source of great amusement to her fellow warriors, and they were willing to go on at great length. Everyone wanted to tell him about the tantrum she’d thrown when she’d returned to the docks at the start of high tide to find her twin had taken their boat. It had involved much cursing, heaping insults upon her and her habits, kicking the water, and even throwing things. However, the most important thing, from Smokescreen’s perspective, they consistently mentioned was the drinking she was doing, and _where_ she was doing that drinking.

 _The Spear of Lightning_ was flanked by a tavern and a barn, in which a Polyhexian offering shrine to one of the gods — Smokescreen didn’t know which one — had been set up. Walking in into the tavern did not immediately reveal the (pissed off) warrior, but asking around in his passable Polyhexian quickly got him pointed to an empty table. Thinking that maybe his quarry had perhaps simply overenergized to the point of passing out, he was surprised and scandalized to find two femmes laying in a heap of armor and broken chairs behind it when he looked, aftershocks and steam still coming off of them both.

One of them groaned tiredly and petted her companion’s armor — which prompted _that_ one to grope her lover’s aft — and shifted. Smokescreen _hurriedly_ averted his optics as the movement revealed their armor was still open, sparklight flickering from within. _In public!_

“You gotta _problem,_ Prax?” one of the femmes snarled crankily.

“No problem,” he said quickly in the femme’s native language, working to set his shock aside. Polys had looser standards of privacy than most inlanders and he knew it, even if it still caught him off-guard from time to time. “Just didn’t know ya were busy.”

He didn’t hear the femme move; he jumped when he felt her hand on his, stroking up his arm. “Ain’t busy _enough_ though.” He felt the heat from her vents wash across the front of his armor, her lips on his collar strut.

Well, _that_ hadn’t been what he’d come for! “What if I’m busy?” he asked, though he didn’t push her away. Out in the open while he was hunting information wasn’t his first choice for what she was offering, but it went against his nature to turn down a good time. “What if I came here lookin’ fer someone?”

“I _know_ yer lookin’ fer me, mech.” The femme pulled herself closer, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and one leg around his hips. Smokescreen stiffened at first, worried she might be angry, but then she pressed another mouth-touch to his collar, then another, this time adding a nip of sharpened canine teeth as she worked her way closer to his chest-seam. There was absolutely no denying her intent, and it had nothing to do with violence. “Can’t ask questions ‘bout me fer sunmarks’n not expect it t’git back t’me by th’same tides. But I don’ wanna _talk,_ mech.” And her next caress-nip was harder, sharper, and accompanied by a shove that sent him sprawling across the top of the table.

“Guess that means yer Ricochet,” he said, unsuccessfully trying to get back up as the very insistent Polyhexian climbed up on the table above him, pinning him in place. She wasn’t kidding about not talking. Aggressive as she was being, Smokescreen knew that if he indicated he wanted her to stop, she would… but as uninterested as she was in talking, she’d forget all about him and go find someone who was willing. Which meant if he hoped to get anything from her, Smokescreen was just going to have to go along with this.

How perfectly terrible.

“What _are_ ya interested in then, hmm?” He pushed himself further back on the table, allowing the femme more room (and making sure her frame would largely block his from view, even though the others in the bar were all Polyhexian as well). His hands found seams to trace along her sides, following the curves of her frame up and around to her (still cracked open!) chest seam. She was hot to the touch, still sparking from her previous liaison and working herself up for another.

Ricochet growled, her _angry/passionate_ EM field buzzing harshly against his sensors, and she mouth-touched/bit him again, this time directly over the his chest seam. It sparked _pleasure/pain_ through his body. She wiggled on top of him to mouth-touch their lips together and straddled his waist to pin him to the table. He gasped in shock as her tongue thrust into his mouth right as clawed fingers traced the seam of his chest, wiggling and prying at the armor to get at the spark within.

“Hey!” he panted against her lips. “Ya got a head start on me! Ain’t ya gonna let me warm up first?” Though he was already warming beneath her questing fingers, his systems quickening to build the pleasurable charge and heat that went along with a shallow merge. That mouth-thing she kept doing was incredibly sensual and exotic; very Polyhexian, _not_ something Praxans did with each other. The result was that it felt both a little weird, but _good._

Ricochet growled impatiently, but obligingly moved her hands, tracing armor seams from Smokescreen’s chest to his pinned doorwings, tweaking and skimming as she plunged her tongue back into his mouth, battling for a sort of control he didn’t know how to fight for. In the end he just let her dominate him, surrendering to the sensations and letting her stoke the fire in his engine to an inferno.

It didn’t take long — she knew exactly what she was doing, how to get him to respond, and it felt _fantastic._ Fantastic enough that being sprawled out over a table in public ceased to bother him, and the next time she went for his chest seam, it responded, unlatching to crack open and let his spark light peek out to mingle with hers. She teased her claws through it and the sensation of having that outer corona of his deepest self touched made him arch his back with a yell. His chestplating opened further, letting her have more access to him. With a growl, she slammed their chests together, drowning him in her, in _Ricochet,_ in the rage and passion of a femme scorned by her most-beloved.

He wasn’t sure what she saw in him; eagerness, certainly, since he did enjoy a good overload and was looking forward to it, and probably also curiosity — about her, her twin, and the Princess — laced with desire. Whether she was focused enough to follow that desire to see the reward Smokescreen sought, he didn’t know. She didn’t seem as interested in seeing him as in losing herself, using the merge as a way to purge and forget, if only temporarily, the _hurt_ behind her anger.

Smokescreen didn’t mind being used as an escape. Through the haze of pleasure and passion he continued stroking over Ricochet, seeking out sensitive spots in her armor around the belts and jewelry she was wearing. One beaded necklace in particular was fun to run his fingers over, and pulling on it made the beads slide along her neck cables in a way that had her growling and nip-touching at his lips again.

Despite how the femme’s eagerness to _forget_ made her cling to him, trying to draw out the merge, the pleasure, the escape from her hurt, it all built too fast. She overloaded first, arching over him with a cry. Lightning danced over, through her as she fought the overload, futilely hanging on for just one… more… nanoklik…

It was too much for Smokescreen. Shouting in his ecstasy, the last vestiges of his control broke and overload surged through him as well. Sparks leapt from his armor, arcing to Ricochet as the electricity flowed between them in a loop that heightened everything they were feeling. His arms locked around her, holding her against him as he rode the waves of pleasure, all other thoughts temporarily blanked from his mind.

He came to when she shifted on top of him, pulling their chests apart and pushing herself up on shaky hands and knees. With her _rage_ and _hurt_ still permeating his soul, this time her growl of frustration sounded much more like the sob it was covering.

She mouth-touched him gently on the lips, then trailed down his neck cables and even gently brushed the almost closed crack in his chest, as though testing if he was up for another round.

“You wantin’ ta go again?” Smokescreen asked breathlessly, not exactly averse to a repeat himself at this point. “Cuz I’m up fer it, if yer still not ready fer talkin’.”

He took her insistent prying at his chest as a “yes”.

After what turned into another _two_ merges, each almost more desperate than the last, Smokescreen was reduced to a steaming pile of _could-not-move!_ on the table, with Ricochet collapsed on top of him in a heap. She trembled, exhausted and still not-sobbing.

“Hey,” he said softly, bringing a hand up with immense effort to rest on her helm comfortingly. “Think maybe ya can tell me a little ‘bout what yer twin’s gone and done that’s got ya so worked up now?” It would probably help her to talk about it, if she could. Tantrums, drinking, and overloads were great distractions, but they didn’t last forever. And just because he was hoping to get something out of this for himself, didn’t mean he wasn’t genuinely hoping the distraught femme could pull herself out of her destructive spiral.

“As if y’didn’ know, with all those Prax warriors gearin’ up t’chase ‘er down,” Ricochet muttered angrily. “With yer sub-chief offerin’ a bribe t’any’a’us willin’ t’tell where she’s gone.”

“Sure, I know a little. Can’t hardly miss the future-chief disappearin’ in the night.” Not with the city in such an uproar over it, as Ricochet rightly pointed out. “But that don’t tell me why nobody’s taken ‘im up on that bribe, or why yer so upset.”

Ricochet scoffed, her whole body twitching on top of him. “Ya wann’er back? Ya gotta git ‘er. We ain’t part’a ‘er tribe. Ain’t fer us t’show Jazz ain’t worthy’a yer future-chief’s spark.” She growled, a much more serious one than her previous trying-not-to-cry growls. “Jazz is th’ _best_ mate a mech or femme could ask fer. Ain’t no one’ll catch’er.”

“Whoa, hang on,” Smokescreen said, running the words through his processor again in case he’d misunderstood. He spoke Polyhexian fairly well, but that hadn’t made any sense. “Mate, as in, bondmate? How? Prowl is the _Princess,”_ he used the Praxan word. “She can’t be Jazz’s mate.”

Another scoff and Ricochet shoved herself off of him, swinging to sit on the table beside him. “Always knew Prax were stupid. Jazz took ‘er, so she _is_ m’twin’s mate. She’ll prove ‘erself worthy, an’ if she ain’t rescued or escaped by th’time yer _Princess,”_ the islander spat the Praxan word, “agrees then there ain’t nothin’ anyone — not even th’gods themselves, if th’slagsuckers were so inclined — can do about it.” Despite announcing what sounded like should have been good news for herself and her twin, Ricochet only sounded bitter and angry. “Long as she’s painted, she belongs t’Jazz. Ain’t no one but the taken femme’s own kin can interfere.”

“That’s—” _a real thing?!_ he’d been about to say, but thought better of it just in time. There were (completely outlandish, bizarre) rumors that Polyhexians literally “took” their mates out in the islands, but Smokescreen had never heard of one of them kidnapping an inland mech or femme. The gears in his head turned quickly; he knew enough to know that clan counted as kin, which he supposed explained the soldiers gathering on the docks not being seen as a problem. But if the idea was for Jazz to “prove herself” by evading pursuit… “Don’t prove much if it’s a done deal,” he said, sitting up next to Ricochet. “How’re her kin supposed t’interfere if they don’t even know which way ta go? We ain’t sailors,” he pointed out. “Ain’t a fair race if yer runnin’ against a mech on wheels.”

“Are you,” Ricochet growled dangerously, “insultin’ th’ honor of m’twin?” Talk about mixed feelings! “Ain’t _no one_ more stupidly honorable than Jazz!” she snarled.

“No, no, that ain’t what I’m gettin’ at,” Smokescreen held up his hands defensively. He didn’t need Ricochet picking his pockets over a non-existent insult! “I’m sure she is. But ya said it yerself: we ain’t that smart. How’re the soldiers gonna give ‘er a challenge when they don’t even know what they’re supposed ta be doin’?” He took a chance and pressed the point. “How’s Jazz gonna look t’the _Princess_ if they sail off the wrong direction?”

“Ain’t m’problem.” Ricochet brushed it off. “Guessin’ th’right direction’s the first challenge any rescuer faces. At least ya only got two t’choose from. This close t’the coast,” she said, almost cruelly, “y’can’t even guess she went downwind fer speed. She’s gotta tack no matter what.”

“Tack?” Smokescreen repeated, clueless. “That mean stay close ta land?” That was the only reason for there to be just two directions to choose from that he could think of, and if Jazz was planning to follow the coast, that was something he could bring to Ultra Magnus.

Ricochet gave Smokescreen an utterly disgusted look. “Tack means… tack.” She made a sound of frustration and glared at Smokescreen like he was the source of the linguistic difficulties. She switched briefly to the trade argot, “Stupid Prax words no have words,” she snapped, “because _stupid._ Jazz sail slower. No wind going where she want.”

“No wind blow along coast?” Smokescreen guessed, hoping to confirm at least that much. He’d followed Ricochet’s example, speaking in the trade argot, but added in Polyhexian, “Prax words not stupid.”

A glare expressed Ricochet’s opinion of _that._ Then she pushed herself off the table to the floor. She still swayed unsteadily with too much highgrade and tiredness from three sparkmerges (with Smokescreen, who knew how many rounds she’d gone with the lover she’d had when he’d walked up), but set off determinedly towards the tavern’s bar.

“Really? Yer just gonna leave me here?” he called after her, looking warily at the floor. It wasn’t all that far away, but his legs still felt a little weak. Praying his knees wouldn’t give out, Smokescreen slid forward to stand — and succeeded. Barely. “Ya didn’t answer both’a my questions, ya know.”

“Did,” the femme countered crankily.

“Didn’t,” Smokescreen shot back, determinedly following her with wobbly steps that grew steadily more confident. “Ya didn’t tell me why yer upset. Ain’t takin’ a mate a good thing?”

Ricochet whirled, yellow optic band blazing nearly white in the dim tavern. “Is!” she insisted. “Jazz’s been lookin’ fer ‘er mate since we were harvested. S’good she finally found ‘er.”

“Then why’s it make ya so mad?” Because it obviously did. Somehow Ricochet felt that Jazz kidnapping herself a mate was a personal betrayal… but why? And was there a way to leverage that to get the Polyhexian to help find the missing Princess? “She not tell ya what she was plannin’?” he guessed, based on the tantrum he’d heard about Ricochet throwing down to the docks when she found her boat taken by her twin in the night.

“Ain’t supposed ta.” Ricochet admitted. “S’the only reason she’d leave m’behind. Gotta do th’ whole thing by _‘erself.”_ She huffed angrily, then she turned her back on Smokescreen again. “Gonna git more highgrade. Glitch left most’a our trade goods behind at least.”

Smokescreen doubted more highgrade was really a wise idea, but telling the irate warrior that was an even worse one. “Ya know,” he said carefully, “just cuz it’s the way things’re done, don’t mean it doesn’t hurt.” Jazz might be doing things the way she was supposed to, but that was small consolation to her twin. “Why not tell ’er that? Find ’er, not ta interfere, but just ta talk.”

“Prax stupid,” Ricochet sneered. “Jazz took our kattumaram.”

“I’ve got a name. If yer gonna insult me, at least call me Smokescreen,” he said lightly, not expecting her to do any such thing. “And I ain’t stupid. I’m pointin’ out that there’s other ways’a followin’ ‘er. Ways that could get both sides somethin’ they want.”

“I ain’t helpin’ ya track down m’twin,” Ricochet barked, whirling on him. “Stupid Prax can’t find ‘er on their own, they deserve t’lose their _Princess.”_

“Oh?” Smokescreen might have to split the bribe with Ricochet if he brought her to Ultra Magnus (assuming she’d even want any of it if she was “not helping”), but he might also be able to negotiate for more for such a valuable resource. He just needed to convince Ricochet to do it. “Think Jazz can’t evade us if yer helpin’ us out a little?”

Ricochet bristled, insulted on her twin’s behalf and Smokescreen took a mental inventory of what he was carrying and resigned himself to losing something; he wasn’t carrying much. Nothing _too_ valuable, at least. It was worth the loss, if this worked. “It don’t matter _how_ much help I give ya, Jazz is better’n _any_ stupid Prax!” she almost yelled. “A stupid Prax is just a stupid _Prax.”_

“Yeah?” Smokescreen drew himself up and spread his doorwings in challenge. _“Prove it.”_

.

.

.

Arcee left the docks to return to the castle and pack her supplies to join in the pursuit. She couldn’t leave her intended’s capture to the others to rectify alone. It was what her oaths as a knight demanded, even if her conscience weren’t balking at the thought of leaving Prowl at the mercy of barbarians.

Weapons, tools, and — after a conversation with the quartermaster and a trip to the kitchens — rations all made their way into compact bundles, stowed either on the belt at her hips or the pack she slung over her shoulders. She considered adding more on a last pass over her things, but decided against it. Better not to bring more than she could easily carry alone. She paused, however, at the base of the astronomy tower where Prowl had been spirited away. The poor thing was probably frightened, even if she hadn’t been hurt; she was helpless without her spellbook. Determined, Arcee raced up the steps to retrieve the tome. It was worth the extra weight to bring it along, and she stowed it carefully to protect it before setting off for the harbor once more.

It had taken longer than she liked, but Ultra Magnus was still there when Arcee returned just before sunset. This time, however, he wasn’t alone. He was talking with a Praxan merchant… and a barbarian warrior!

“Smokescreen!” she called, recognizing the merchant once she got close. “What are you doing here?”

 _“I,”_ the merchant stressed the syllable, “found the information you seek about who took the Princess, why, and where she’s gone.” The dark plated warrior next to him muttered something in her own tongue and Smokescreen turned long enough to say something placatingly. “I’ve also convinced Ricochet to help find her, though she wishes it to be known that she will not participate in the actual rescue.” The warrior snapped something else. “Attempts,” Smokescreen tacked onto the end of his statement without missing a beat.

“She doesn’t believe we _can_ rescue her then?”

“It does not matter whether she believes us capable, so long as she’s willing to assist in our search and does not hinder any rescue attempts,” Ultra Magnus said evenly. “Her expertise has already prevented us from making a critical error.”

“Oh?” Arcee gave the wild femme a searching look. She looked awfully familiar somehow, and it made her suspicious. “How can you be sure following her advice isn’t the error?”

The dark femme bristled, offended, and Smokescreen tried to sooth her — unsuccessfully. “You go out-sea,” she snarled in the local trade-language. “Never find islands. Never find Jazz. Sea eat you. This one no care. You no listen, you more-stupid than stupid Prax,” she waved her hand at Smokescreen. “Deserve to lose _Princess,”_ she snarled. “You no worthy, Jazz keep. This one no care.”

“This Jazz has captured our Princess as part of a Polyhexian ritual for taking a mate,” Ultra Magnus told Arcee, speaking before she had a chance to go off at the barbarian’s rudeness.

“Mate?!” Arcee glared at Ricochet. _“I’m_ the Princess’s future bondmate. What right did this ‘Jazz’ have to take her?”

The warrior didn’t answer right away; instead, she gave Smokescreen’s nearest doorwing a light smack so he would translate her answer. “Ah,” he hesitated, glancing at Ultra Magnus before answering Arcee’s question, _“apparently,_ in the Polyhexian islands it is customary for those who are already mated, or who are in the process of being wooed, to be marked in some way to let others know they are not eligible to be kidnapped. In the absence of that mark, the only ‘right’ Jazz needed was that no one was able to stop her from sneaking into the castle and spiriting the Princess away.”

“And I was supposed to know this?” How was she supposed to have known? Even if she had, Arcee certainly wouldn’t have “marked” her intended in some backward island tradition. Prowl wasn’t Polyhexian! How could Jazz hold her to their customs?

“It would have been better if we had _all_ known.” Ultra Magnus sounded like he had every intent of making sure that knowledge became widespread in the wake of this disaster, but while that might help others from winding up in a similar situation, it didn’t help Prowl now. Arcee wanted to protest, but once again, the Lord spoke first. “What’s done is done. All we can do is go after the Princess and rescue her, invalidating Jazz’s claim and bringing her home.”

Ricochet scoffed. Arcee continued to glare at her, but this time refrained from saying anything. Ultra Magnus was right. Rescuing Prowl was all they could do now, and all she should be focused on. Fighting with this barbarian wouldn’t help, especially if she really did have information they needed.

“Fine. When do we set sail?”

“That’s, ah, the tricky part,” Smokescreen said, losing some of his polished attitude. “You don’t. In order to keep the contest fair, Jazz will be sticking relatively close to the mainland where rescue and escape are possible, rather than heading out into open water. Ricochet doesn’t know this, yet, but our ships can’t follow the coast — not closely enough to follow Jazz. The winds here at the harbor are always pushing either toward or away from land. I guess it’s the same wherever land meets sea. She doesn’t believe this a problem, just something that will slow both us and Jazz, though it mystifies me how their boats could possibly sail across the wind like that.” He shrugged; Ricochet just looked grumpy. “Magic, I suppose.”

“Wonderful.” Arcee looked out at the ships and saw that there weren’t any surrounded by frantic activity now. Good thing she’d packed light. “Will it slow her enough that we can catch up overland?”

“We were discussing that very issue when you arrived,” Ultra Magnus answered. “Determining how fast Jazz will be moving has so far proved difficult.”

“Polyhexian measurements of time and distance don’t really translate to ours,” Smokescreen clarified. “And Ricochet isn’t familiar with the wind speeds, directions, or if they align with the tides this close to the mainland, so describing Jazz’s speed in other ways hasn’t been very useful. She is certain Jazz will stop to rest,” he offered when Arcee growled in frustration, “and that feeding both herself and her passenger _could_ further slow them down.”

“Meaning we _might_ have a chance, but there’s no certainty,” Arcee summarized, “and a small, swift group will be better than a large one.”

“Since we are dealing with only one femme, a large group should not be necessary.” That was true. The number of mechs Ultra Magnus had been mobilizing earlier would have been necessary to sail a large ship or combat significant opposition, but neither consideration mattered now. “I have already sent out a couple of small scouting teams using Ricochet’s information, but am I correct that you intend to lead the primary rescue party personally, your Highness?”

“You are,” Arcee confirmed. “Who else are you preparing to send with me?” Ultra Magnus simply nodded at the two standing beside them. “…I see.”

“What? No!” Smokescreen responded, alarmed. “Nononononono. No, I’m not a warrior or soldier or tracker or, or _anything._ I can’t go on the rescue mission! I’ve got a _business!”_

Behind him, Ricochet snickered, understanding just enough of the merchant’s words or tone to find his plight amusing. She said something short, and Smokescreen whirled to jabber back at the barbarian, which only made her laugh harder.

“Having Ricochet with you will give you the best advantage,” Ultra Magnus explained to Arcee while Smokescreen tried to explain himself to the cackling islander. “I plan to send several additional teams out with you with orders to break off closer to the objective once they have a chance to learn more from her, but her specialized knowledge for tracking and uncovering hidden Polyhexian vessels will remain immediately and consistently available to you.”

Arcee understood what he was getting at, and it was a good point. The barbarian would be less likely to walk by a disguised boat without noticing it, and better able to predict the kidnapper’s actions. Provided she actually pointed out what she saw, having her along would be useful, if aggravating. “And Smokescreen?”

“Right, ah,” Smokescreen extricated himself from his argument, “I can’t go on the rescue mission. I’m not exactly the knight in shining armor type.”

“You are a citizen of Hightower, are you not?” Ultra Magnus gave him a stern look similar to the one Arcee remembered from earlier when he’d reminded her of her lack of authority in this city. “As a Praxan, you should wish to see every possible effort made to rescue our Princess and contribute in any way you can.”

“Of course!” Smokescreen said. Ricochet jabbered something, and the Praxan merchant shushed her before continuing. “I do. Every possible effort. But I’m no warrior; I’m not sure what I could contribute to such a party.”

“Then you are not valuing yourself as a translator,” Ultra Magnus said, not surprising Arcee at all. She’d already anticipated that answer, and was a little amused in spite of herself that the merchant hadn’t already worked that out for himself. “Someone needs to be able to bridge the language gap in the party, and you have already proven to work well with Ricochet.”

“If,” Smokescreen scoffed, “by that you mean: she’s going to rob me _blind_ for the insults I’ve made to goad her into helping as soon as she’s proven her twin capable of evading you. If that’s _working well,_ then I’m sure you’re right, my liege. And you don’t want to know what I had to promise in regards to her trade goods! She doesn’t understand what _credit_ is!”

“Wait.” Arcee held up a hand, completely unconcerned with Smokescreen’s money problems. “Her _twin?”_ Looking at her again, Arcee remembered now where she’d seen Ricochet — or someone very _like_ her — before. It had been her twin she and Prowl had run into in the market, the one who had stolen her gladius, and now, her intended. “How are we supposed to trust her?!”

Somehow, Ultra Magnus didn’t seem overly concerned by the close relation. “What _did_ you promise?” he asked Smokescreen.

“Oh, just the basics,” the Praxan responded, still more concerned with his business than the barbarian’s loyalties! “Food, sailcloth, bronze ingots and tools, steel weapons, highgrade, dice, gems, and a _boat!”_ Ricochet scoffed, having understood that last word well enough. “She wants a boat! Her _own_ boat. She says their current one isn’t big enough for them and the new member of their… household. And she expects me to provide it!” Smokescreen waved his arms theatrically. “I don’t even know where I’m going to _get_ a Polyhexian boat!”

“Shouldn’t we be a little more worried about her helping us _find_ her _twin’s_ boat first?” Who cared how Smokescreen was going to get his hands on a Polyhexian boat? He was a merchant; he’d figure something out. What was more important was the blatant conflict of interests everyone seemed intent on ignoring! “What’s to say she won’t give us false information, lead us around in circles while Jazz makes off with the Princess for good?”

“The nature of the contest prohibits anyone from assisting Jazz in her task,” Ultra Magnus answered, his faith in the island tradition clearly much stronger than her own. “Ricochet would dishonor her twin and devalue her claim if she deliberately misled us.”

“Rules also say no one can assist us in finding her,” Smokescreen said offhandedly. “Ricochet has her own reasons for wanting to find her twin before it’s a fully done deal, and I’ve convinced her that our ineptitude besmirches her twin’s honor, obligating her to help us to defend the legitimacy of Jazz’s claim. _None of which,”_ he turned back to Ultra Magnus, “addresses the fact that I can’t go. I can translate, sure, but so can a lot of other mechs. I need to stay here and try and gather up everything I need to _pay_ Ricochet for giving up her trade goods!”

“You will have the reward for bringing us the information we needed to help you purchase what you need,” Ultra Magnus promised. “In addition, you will be compensated for your time away from your business in the service of the crown.” Arcee could see the trademark gleam in Smokescreen’s optics as the trader considered, calculating just what kind of compensation would make it worth his while. “It is my opinion that you have the best rapport with Ricochet, and therefore my preference,” the word was a couched command, “that you accompany the party as its translator.”

The islander said something and Smokescreen stiffened, an embarrassed blush spreading through his EM field. “Yes, my liege,” he addressed Ultra Magnus.

Arcee narrowed her optics shrewdly, wondering just what the barbarian had just said. Whatever it was, Smokescreen’s response only further diminished what little trust she had in their… guide. But Ultra Magnus had the final say, and he wasn’t budging.

“How soon do we leave then?” she asked, hoping it wouldn’t be long. By now the sun had set; Jazz already had a cycle’s head start on them. “I am prepared to depart immediately.”

Smokescreen asked Ricochet, who shrugged. “She doesn’t care,” Smokescreen translated. “She’s ready to travel now as well. _I’ll_ need a few things, but I don’t know what we might need for a trip like this. I’ve never left Hightower before,” he complained.

Arcee didn’t see any equipment or rations in what the barbarian was carrying. Just a variety of knives attached to various pieces of her plating, a bundle of harpoons strapped to her back, a small pouch, and several largish spheroids attached to her waist. Everything else, as far as Arcee could tell, was jewelry: a large tooth hung from a shell and pearl choker, three loops of white shell beads, and a longer necklace that at least had a small bronze knife hanging from the strand of spherical red glass beads. Arcee stared at the bangle bracelets made from differently colored cloth and the gold colored flag ornament tied around her waist with her pouch. It had been folded before it had been tied, so at least it looked like the warrior could walk and run, but could she even _transform_ in all of that? It would definitely slow her down!

Ricochet returned her stare, her yellow optic band meeting Arcee’s gaze fearlessly.

“Packs have been made up for the soldiers.” Ultra Magnus gestured down the docks where a shed that still had a fair amount of activity around it stood, equipping a group of mechs and femmes for travel. “They have everything you will need. Rest assured that your shop will be safe in your absence.”

“Then as soon as he and the rest of our team are kitted out, we’re leaving?” Arcee turned, looking one way up the coast, then the other. “Which way are we supposed to go?”

Smokescreen asked Ricochet, who responded with a sharp one-word answer. The merchant turned back to Arcee and Ultra Magnus with a sheepish look. “We’re supposed to guess.”

“Guess? Based on what? The position of the stars and the number of cybergulls perched on a ship’s sail?” Or whatever diviners used in their spells. Arcee was no mage, and she didn’t want to wait on one now. She’d been doing nothing but waiting all cycle! But they needed a sign, something to turn a guess into an informed decision.

“Ricochet doesn’t know,” Smokescreen soothed. “The same issue our ships have sailing close to the shore also means that it’s impossible for her to predict which way Jazz went based on which way is consistently fastest. And since neither of them know the coast well enough to know what sort of resources or hiding spots lay in either direction, Jazz would have chosen her course based entirely off which way the wind and tides made it easier to sail at the time she cast off — something that can change by the joor. Without any expertise to offer, Ricochet is leaving the decision up to us.”

“Neither of the advance teams that were sent earlier have reported back anything that would indicate Jazz went one way or the other,” Ultra Magnus sighed. “I had hoped for more when their messengers returned, but at this point it may be best to lose a little more time to save it in the long run.”

The delay ground on Arcee’s fast fraying nerve-circuits. “You already admitted to not knowing whether we’ll be fast enough to catch up! We can’t afford to lose any more time!”

“And if you go the wrong way? What then?” Ultra Magnus drew himself up to his significantly full height. “If the only way to get a reliable indication now is magic, then we will wait for it — however long it takes.”

Impatiently, Arcee stomped down on the pier to glare at the water. When first coming to Hightower with Prowl, she’d been in awe of the sea. The reddish water had been beautiful. Now it was an enemy that would not give up its secrets.

How long would it take to get a suitable mage here? How long for the casting? And how reliable, given the nature of the water itself?

Behind her, Ricochet said something to Smokescreen that had him sputtering in outrage. She ignored him. They — _she_ — needed to find Prowl! Who _knew_ what that _barbarian_ would do to her! What she was doing right now! This whole “kidnapping a mate” ritual sounded horrific to Arcee. The monster was probably planning on _forcing_ Prowl to bond, if she hadn’t already! Just the thought of her sweet stargazer crying as she was held down and _violated_ made Arcee seethe. Her hand wrapped around the hilt of her new Praxan styled sword, clenching until her fingers ached.

She was so focused on the image of what _might be_ happening right now to her helpless intended that she missed the first firework.

The second, though, just the barest flicker of bright red and gold above the southern horizon, did catch her attention.

“Look!” she cried out, pointing as a third distant firework burst in the sky. “It’s Prowl, I know it! She’s sending up flares.” The spell was one Prowl had demonstrated for her, describing it as one of her “flashier” magics. They all watched together, but no more appeared. She’d been interrupted; Arcee knew she could shoot off more than three. “There’s your magical indicator,” she said triumphantly. “We head south.”

.

.

.

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We tried making meaning of every word we used clear from context, but our beta told us this one was still ambiguous:
> 
> Catamaran - A catamaran (/ˌkætəməˈræn/) is a multi-hulled watercraft featuring two parallel hulls of equal size. The word "catamaran" is derived from the Tamil word, kattumaram, which means "logs bound together." Catamaran-type vessels were first developed (on Earth, anyway XD) as early as 1500 BCE by the Polynesian peoples. These early examples were likely related to outrigger canoes and consisted of two canoes bound together with a wooden frame, sometimes accompanied by a sail. Despite their simplicity they were nonetheless effective, allowing seafaring Polynesians to voyage to distant Pacific islands.
> 
> More information for the curious, can be found on [Wikipedia!](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catamaran)


	2. Chapter 2

“Why are we waiting here?” Arcee almost snarled.

Smokescreen could only shrug. “Because if we’re going to bring a tracker along, we have to let her actually, I don’t know, _track.”_ The Iaconi princess huffed. “If you don’t want her help, I’m sure Ricochet would love to leave you on your own.” _Then I could go back to Hightower,_ the merchant thought. After driving hard all night (following a hard argument about the necessity of driving with a Polyhexian who’d still been under the impression they would be sailing) through the dark and the crystalline underbrush, Smokescreen _ached._ He ached in parts and pieces of himself he didn’t even know he had. Rescuing the princess was important, yeah, but he was rather glad Ricochet had pulled them to a stop and insisted on swimming out to… what, exactly, no one was quite certain of. Even a couple of joors past sunrise, Smokescreen couldn’t see anything that might have caught the warrior’s attention.

It didn’t matter to _him,_ he kept telling himself. He just needed the break.

Arcee, on the other hand, didn’t seem to appreciate the respite. “We can’t wait all cycle!” she said irritably.

Smokescreen was saved from having to say anything by Ricochet bursting from the water near shore and standing up from the waves. Arcee very quickly turned her ire on the Poly. “What are we doing just standing here while you take a swim?”

Dutifully Smokescreen translated and Ricochet answered. “There’s’n atoll lagoon out there. ‘S under th’high tide right now so ya can’t see it ‘cept by th’way th’waves’re crashin’ ‘round it. ‘S got a few deep channels t’let a small kattumaram in and out. Jazz stayed there last sun-cycle’n set sail last night, ‘bout th’time yer _princess_ sent up ‘er flares.”

That was good news! It was a confirmation they were going the right way, and that they weren’t as far behind Jazz as they’d feared. “How can ya tell?” Smokescreen asked, anticipating Arcee’s question without needing to relay Ricochet’s words first. “‘Specially if it’s underwater?”

Arcee tapped her foot impatiently, but the warrior ignored her, addressing Smokescreen and scoffed. “Y’think an anchor sits on th’bottom’a th’sea, light as a koekoea’s feather on th’water? No. Makes a big mark. Disturbs th’sand, catches on rocks, and pulls up th’crystals and critters livin’ there.”

Well, when she put it that way… “The Princess was here last night,” he told Arcee, not dignifying the jab with a response. He didn’t think anchors _didn’t_ disturb the seafloor; he’d just never thought about what anchors did at all, besides holding a boat in place. “Ricochet saw where Jazz anchored their boat under the water.”

“Good!” Arcee snapped, already turning back to the harder ground further up on the shore; the sand right at the beach barely provided any traction at all. Two of her own guards from Iacon waited up there, out of the sand, with the other groups of guards from Hightower who would split off later to widen the search.

“She set traps too,” Ricochet added. “Stocked up on fuel, if she was lucky and th’gods willed it. Might’a got a stockpile fer a swift getaway. Might wanna find somethin’ so we don’t use up what we’re carryin’ before then.”

Smokescreen was certain Ricochet understood at least some Praxan, but Arcee obviously didn’t care what the warrior was saying. She just continued making her way up to the crystal growth where she could transform and continue the chase. “Frag,” Ricochet cursed. “I ain’t _driving,”_ it was weird hearing the Praxan word and realizing it meant the islanders didn’t have one in their own language, “until we’ve rested and fueled. Listen, you,” she trailed off into a staccato curse Smokescreen didn’t know (but noted for future use), before switching to the trade argot, “No go! Fuel, rest first!”

Arcee whirled. “We’re still a cycle behind _your twin._ And your _excursion_ has put us further behind! We’re _not_ stopping until we have Prowl back!”

 _“Yes stop,”_ Ricochet growled, grinding her foot down in the soft sand. “Need fuel, rest. Go, or leave. This one _stay.”_

“Your Highness,” Smokescreen called after the irate Princess, “she was doing things this whole time we’ve been resting. She won’t be _able_ to drive again if we don’t let her recover first. And we _need_ her,” he rushed to add. “Jazz left traps.” Traps they would have trouble spotting on their own, never mind the difficulty of getting out of them. He supposed they might manage. There were several of them, so they could rotate who took point and leave mechs behind to free anyone who sprung a trap while the others pressed on, but that seemed like the sort of short-sighted mistake that would wind up hurting them in the long run.

Of course, if Arcee decided to leave Ricochet behind, then he wouldn’t have to continue driving his tires bald either. Buuuut, if he didn’t do all he could to make sure they came back with the Princess, he’d have to face his liege lord without her. “The extra down time won’t hurt us too much; Jazz hasn't seen us yet, right? I mean, that’s when she’ll really make a break for it, isn’t it?”

Arcee made a sound of frustration. She clenched her fists, but snapped out, “Three breems. I’ll tell the guards to rest and fuel up.” Then she stomped away into the crystalline underbrush.

“She leavin’ us?” Ricochet drawled.

“Naw, just tellin’ th’others we’re leavin’ in a little under a sun mark.” The Polyhexian time unit did not have a precise translation into the standard time units the rest of Cybertron used. Nor was it itself particularly precise, being defined as the amount of time it took for the sun to move noticeably across the sky. Hopefully that was enough time for Ricochet. Smokescreen did not relish the thought of trying to translate/mediate an argument for more. “What’d ya mean ‘bout findin’ rations?” They were in the forest. They weren’t likely to find any energon deposits here, especially not in any edible form. And anyway, “We brought enough fer a kilocycle.”

Ricochet gave him a disgusted look. “Just how long d’ya think this chase’ll last?” Then she turned her gaze out to the beach itself, and Smokescreen felt that disgust flicker through her field.

“Oh? How long’re _you_ thinkin’ this’ll take?” Though Smokescreen was pretty sure he could guess as he asked the question. “Nevermind. Y’think we ain’t gonna succeed, so we’ll be out here till th’end o’ the lunar cycle with nothin’ t’show fer it.” Which could actually be a problem, provisions wise. The packs he and the other soldiers were carrying only had enough for a fraction of that for each of them. He didn’t know what they were going to do if — or when — they ran out. It felt like a rather foolish oversight to have made. But at the same time, he wasn’t sure how they could have physically carried more.

The islander huffed agreement, but didn’t bother with a further answer. “Nevermind” apparently meant the conversation was over. “S’high tide. This’d be so much easier at low tide.” She shrugged. “Even th’gods can’t change th’tides. Work with ‘em not against ‘em,” she muttered, searching for… something. Her gaze settled on the birds wheeling overhead. “Let’s hope they’re stupid.”

Gesturing for Smokescreen to stay where he was, Ricochet took something from her belt pouch and readied it in one hand, then scooped a handful of sand with the other. She paced several steps down beach, away from Smokescreen and waded into the water. When she was chest-high and past the point where the breakers made foam, she flung the sand into the relatively calmer water, creating a series of splashes. Several gulls squawked excitedly and dove at the splashes. With a flick of her wrist and a twist of her body, she flung the thing in her hand out, which revealed itself to be a net. The gulls saw it and tried to fly away, several succeeded in escaping, but three were caught and tangled in the weighted strands.

Ricochet whooped in triumph. “Aka! Stupid birds! Sing t’the gods!” She sent a sly grin towards Smokescreen. “Birds’re stupider than Prax.”

“Hey,” he protested, mostly on principle this time. Not bringing more rations _was_ stupid, and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. But how did the gulls solve anything? “So what’re th’birds fer then?”

“Fuel,” Ricochet said, coming over and dropping down to sit in the sand at Smokescreen’s feet, completely uncaring about the sand she was getting stuck on (and probably under) her armor. The gulls struggled in the net, screaming and pecking. One managed to peck Ricochet hard enough to leave a small dent, but the islander ignored it. “I’ll share with ya, stupid Prax. I ain’t sharin’ with no one else though. Kinda like ya, least enough t’keep ya from starvin’ as long as I got fuel t’spare.”

She untangled one of the birds and, holding the struggling thing by the feet, held it out to Smokescreen.

He recoiled. “What’m I supposed t’do with _that?”_

Ricochet laughed. “Eat. I can kill it fer ya. Th’look on yer faceplate was pretty funny though.” She readjusted her grip on the cybergull so she was holding it behind the head, keeping it still with one hand. With the other she drew a long, thin, awl-like knife from its sheath on her leg and thrust it into the mechanimal’s processor. Its scream cut off abruptly and didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. She licked her knife clean and held the gull out to Smokescreen again. “Here.”

“Er,” he hesitated, reaching for the dead thing haltingly before pulling back. “‘Kay, yer prob’ly gonna laugh’n call me stupid again, but I honestly ain’t got a clue how t’eat that.” He was having a little trouble even thinking of it as fuel. Sure, there was energon in it, but not _consumable_ energon. Not as he knew it.

Ricochet did laugh. “Take!” Left with no graceful out, Smokescreen did so, holding the dead gull gingerly. Then Ricochet untangled the second gull from the net and killed it just as neatly before untangling the third. This one she let go. “No reason t’keep it,” she explained at Smokescreen’s look. “It’ll spoil.” Then she picked up her own bird-corpse and bit into the biggest energon line, just under its wing. With relish, she sucked, taking a long draft of the fuel. “Like that,” she told Smokescreen, before sucking out more of the gull’s energon.

“Yer serious.” She was actually serious. That was… Smokescreen shook his head. Yes, it was barbaric. Ricochet was a “barbarian”. No point in being so surprised. No point in being squeamish, either. If they were going to be out here until the full moon, he was going to have to supplement his rations at some point, whether it was now or later. He sat down heavily, wincing slightly when the sand got under his armor.

With a long, hard look at the gull in his hand, Smokescreen turned it over and bit into the wing — or tried to. He wasn’t sure where the energon lines were beneath its plating, and thin as that plating was, his teeth weren’t up to the task of tearing through it like Ricochet’s. He tried again anyway, gnawing at the gull in search of an energon line. At last he felt its armor start to buckle and he bit harder, hoping— “Ack!” He spluttered as the line ruptured, spraying him in the face before he managed to seal his lips over the hole properly.

It tasted… okay? More okay than he was expecting. Warm energon wasn’t a total novelty, and the flavor was actually almost familiar. He searched his memory for where he might have tasted it before as he continued to drink before finally lowering the carcass to look at Ricochet. “Y’sell anything like this in th’market?”

“No one bothers t’sell koekoea at th’market,” Ricochet’s visor was slightly dimmed with fuel satiation, almost looking like the sleepy pleasure between sparkmerges, when the glow from one overload hadn’t yet faded, but she was already looking for the next. “Hightower’s got enough koekoea’a its own. Don’t need us t’bring any in.” She smiled and rolled onto her hands and knees to crawl a step toward Smokescreen. “Y’got a bit’a fuel right,” she licked Smokescreen’s face, from the corner of his mouth to his cheek ridge.

Smokescreen couldn’t help himself; he chuckled, then turned his face to catch her lips again in a brief mouth-to-mouth touch, which she returned, nipping him with her fuel-covered fangs. She took the opportunity to wiggle onto his lap and straddle his hips, pressing their closed chests together, but didn’t let him occupy her with mouth-touching for long. As soon as they broke apart, she licked at the fuel on his face again.

He was _aware_ of her elongated teeth (and how effective they could be at piercing plating) like he’d never been before. The fangs had just been a Polyhexian frametype oddity to him before, one of the ways they were distinguished from Praxans and other mainland mechs and femmes. But as she licked roughly at his face to clean the gull’s fuel off, across his lips and cheeks and lapping around his optics, he could feel the very tips of those fangs also scraping against the delicate armor of his face. It was an unusual sensation, but one he thought he could easily get used to…

Playing like this was going to make him hungry for more than fuel pretty soon. “‘M gonna start heatin’ up ‘f’ya keep that up.”

Ricochet’s engine let out a lustful purr. “Wouldn’t mind that,” she drawled right next his jaw before nibbling on his neck cables. Clawed fingers fluttered against his sides.

Smokescreen was _definitely_ heating up now. Gull? What gull? The partially drained carcass fell to the sand. He cupped his hands around her aft and arched into her touch, grinding their chests together.

He knew he probably shouldn’t be doing this right now, but Ricochet was a temptation he wasn’t prepared to turn down. The femme moved with such skill against him, and he could feel her warming up as well. And he knew how good a merge with her would be.

Then, with no warning at all, she pushed herself away and stood. “Don’t want yer _princess_ t’accuse me’a holdin’ ya up. I keep m’word.” She chuckled. Minx knew exactly what she’d done to him!

“Ain’t _my princess,”_ he panted, thinking for a nanoklik that Ricochet was talking about Arcee. He very much did not want her to come yell at them for holding them up to frag after insisting on a break to rest. Then his processor caught up with him as the warrior’s touches faded from his plating. “Oh. Y’mean Prowl. Guess yer prob’ly right.”

He wished she wasn’t.

Arcee was — surprise, surprise — pacing as she waited with the guards.

“Let’s go,” she huffed when she saw them. She didn’t wait to see that they’d follow; she simply transformed into her sleek, fast alternate form and revved her engine as one of the guards loaded her things onto her. One by one, the guards did the same, helping each other with their things. Smokescreen winced, shifting on his tires uncomfortably, when it was his turn.

Ricochet was the last one to be loaded up. When she’d called for them to stop so she could check out the now-underwater lagoon, the Praxans and three Iaconi had left their packs of supplies in the bundles that would make them easy to be re-loaded onto them when they started again. Ricochet, however, had insisted on putting everything she carried — from jewelry, to knives and tools, to those odd ovoids she carried netted to the strap of her waist-pouch — back in its proper place. As a result, she now had to strip down to her bare armor and repack everything. Smokescreen couldn’t figure out if it really was compulsive that she carry what she owned instead of leaving it in the communal pile, or if she was subtly angling for a few more moments rest (she had gotten quite a bit less than the others) and putting off transforming for as long as possible. Drift, one of Arcee’s guards from Iacon, loaded Ricochet’s things onto her when they were ready. His supplies were distributed among packs on his turbodogs, leaving him unencumbered.

“Still don’ see why we gotta drive anyway,” Ricochet muttered one final complaint amid the growling engines of everyone taking off, following Arcee. “If th’gods wanted us t’drive, they wouldn’t’ve given us boats.”

.

.

.

Prowl had hoped to start planning her escape immediately, to use the time Jazz wasn’t paying attention to her as effectively as possible. Instead she spent it clinging to the hull of the catamaran, huddled under the blanket, screeching every time they cut through a wave that soaked her plating. It always looked like the water was going to come up over the sides of the shallow boat, and Prowl couldn’t decide which frightened her more: the thought of it picking her up and carrying her over the side, or of it filling the catamaran and sinking them both.

It never actually did either. Somehow the boat rose up just enough as it reached each wave to skim over the top of it, cutting through the water and sending up a spray that stung as it struck her. The blanket provided some protection, but she couldn’t hold it closed around her _and_ hold onto the side of the boat. The blanket slipped a little more with each wave, but she couldn’t unclench her hands from it to fix it. What if the boat pitched just then and she was tossed overboard? She was tied up! She couldn’t grab for the boat, or even keep herself afloat!

They probably weren’t all that big, as waves went. Prowl knew that storms at sea could whip the waters into a frenzy, stirring up waves as tall as buildings. These weren’t anywhere near that large, but in the darkness they loomed larger than they were, and the boat was so small and fragile… She screamed again as they crested another wave. It felt like they’d just been launched into the air! A spray along the side of the hull confirmed they’d at least left the water enough to fall back down onto it with a splash, and Prowl’s fingers tightened painfully as she fought to steady herself.

Her arms and back ached with the strain of holding herself upright, fighting against the wind and the motion of the boat to keep from being knocked over. She desperately wanted to flex her doorwings, to use them to help her balance, but they were folded down beneath the blanket. Moving them would make it fall away completely, and then _it_ could be swept away by the wind.

Was Jazz planning to sail all night? Prowl didn’t know how much more of this she could take.

Another wave sent a spray right up into her face, leaving her spluttering instead of screaming. The water ran down her front under the blanket, chilling her further as she bit her lip to keep from whimpering. She was _not_ going to cry; it wouldn’t help anything, and it would only make it harder to hold on.

Suddenly Jazz was there, _coo~rru’ing_ gently. She kept her balance perfectly as she crouched on the deck with no apparent effort and ran her hand over Prowl’s helm. “Coo~rru… no,” she struggled with the word she wanted, “bad thing.” Prowl almost didn’t hear over her own cry as they went over another swell, but Jazz was patient, making her _coo~rru, coo~rru_ sounds until they penetrated. “No danger,” Jazz promised as she resettled the blanket around Prowl, making sure it was secure in her hands where they clung to the hull. “No danger.”

“What happen this one fall?” Prowl asked, not believing there was no danger of that, whatever Jazz said. The only thing she felt better about was Jazz noticing if she went overboard. She’d obviously been keeping a close enough watch on her to spot the blanket slipping, and that was much less dramatic than drowning. “Can’t grab boat.”

“NOT fall,” Jazz insisted. “Stay in… thing. Long thing,” she gestured down the length of the hull Prowl was in, the sleeping pad taking up most of the space and the remainder filled with boxes and bags all tied securely down. “Stay in, Prowl no fall.”

“Prowl no _want_ fall,” she said desperately, but still wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t. “No tie, can hold boat better?” It wasn’t much, but it would make her feel less helpless. More than that, it would allow her to shift enough to take the strain of bracing herself off exhausted cables for awhile, before needing to find a new position. “Please,” she begged. “No,” there was no trade word for _magic,_ “no sky-fire-lights, promise.”

“Not fall,” Jazz insisted again. “No need hold.” Gently she pushed on Prowl, indicating she should lay down. “Two person kattumaram. This one and Bounce-Shot. Share. Night sail. Day sail. One sleep-pad. There.” She pushed at Prowl again. “No need hold. No fall.”

They _slept_ while the boat was moving like this? Prowl tensed, but followed the pressure of Jazz’s hand. The rocking of the waves only felt stronger once she couldn’t see them coming, but having a lower center of gravity did feel a little more secure. She still trembled as she lay down on the pad, not completely trusting. Jazz took the blanket and spread it out over her prone form, tucking it securely under her body.

Almost immediately Prowl noticed she wasn’t getting any wetter. Less spray was hitting her now that her body was below the edge of the hull, and the blanket was blocking the rest. And without the spray stealing her frame’s heat, she was getting warmer as well. She expected steam to form, but the pad was wicking the moisture on her plating away, leaving her warm and dry surprisingly quickly. How clever…

Jazz smiled down at her from her perch on the deck. With a final caress across Prowl’s chevron, the islander scampered away to attend the sail. Prowl watched her as far as her view went, but was quickly left with nothing but the side of the hull to look at to distract herself from the sea rolling beneath them.

After that, Jazz returned periodically to check on her. She’d _coo~rru_ comfortingly, and occasionally adjust the blanket, then disappear again from Prowl’s view. It was better this way, she could admit to herself, though she didn’t know how she would ever be able to sleep like this. Knowing she must have slept safely while the boat was in motion before didn’t help her now, especially when the cables she’d strained earlier started to protest despite her being warm under the blanket.

Gently Prowl tried to roll in place, hoping a slight change in position would help ease the ache. She stopped mid-shift though, when she finally, for the first time, really looked _up._

Stars. Stars as far as she could see in the clear night sky, twinkling in patterns that were both familiar and not. There were so many! Even among the constellations she had looked at all her life, suddenly she could see new stars, new shapes glowing with the faintest of light.

“Ohh…” she breathed quietly, spotting one particular pale pink star she’d started following with her telescope just the other night. She’d never seen it unaided before, didn’t even know it was possible. It was beautiful…

It was a good distraction from the boat.

She followed the star’s movement, wishing she was on land. On the boat, it wandered in her field of view, left and right and up and down with the boat’s movement. She couldn’t trace its path accurately, but it was still a comfort to keep it in sight.

She didn’t know how long it was before the violent lurching of the boat beneath her gentled enough for her to sleep, but once it did, the exhaustion from clinging to the side of the hull dragged her into recharge almost immediately sometime before the pale greenish blue light of pre-dawn touched the sky.

Prowl woke held down by Jazz’s weight, the barbarian sprawled over her. Once again she could hear the cries of cybergulls, a whole flock of them by the sound of it, and it was light, though she couldn’t see the sky directly overhead. Where were they now? Whatever they were sheltering beneath looked a lot like the ceilings in the castle, only rougher and the color of brown rust. Some kind of natural cave perhaps?

She couldn’t see how close they were to shore, not while she was laying down. Moving as slowly as she could, Prowl tried to inch sideways on the pad to get out from under Jazz and sit up without waking her. There wasn’t, however, very much “sideways” to inch. Prowl hit the side of the catamaran’s hull after only a single movement. Jazz didn’t stir, making soft _coo~rru_ sounds in response to Prowl’s movement, but getting out of the hull would require _climbing out,_ and Jazz’s weight prevented her from doing that without waking the warrior. She was effectively pinned in.

Expecting it to be futile but using it as a test to see how readily disturbed Jazz was, Prowl gently began shifting her to the side.

Jazz didn’t react, but just as Prowl began to hope the islander was a deep sleeper, she looked down and saw light and awareness in her blue optic band. She froze, and Jazz’s EM field flickered in faint amusement. Prowl hoped she’d get up then, or at least let Prowl sit up, but with a purring sound Jazz burrowed herself into Prowl’s plating, nuzzling her chest-seam.

“Ah! Stop!” Prowl jerked back, knocking into the side of the hull. Waking up with the warrior on top of her had been strange enough! She hadn’t been concerned then what she might be holding her down for, other than to prevent her from escaping, but this was more than she wanted from anyone! “I don’t appreciate you being so overly familiar.”

The warrior froze, then scrambled back, away from Prowl. “This one apologizes. This one sorry.” Her apologies were much more sincere than they had been when she’d stolen Arcee’s gladius. “No want scare. This one sorry.” She pulled herself up onto the deck and settled with her back against the ship’s mast. “This one… this one _stop,”_ she repeated the Praxan word Prowl had called out.

“Thank you,” Prowl said in Praxan, then repeated herself in the trade argot. “Thank you. This one not afraid.” And she wasn’t, she was relieved to find. At least, not afraid of Jazz taking liberties with her. She was still afraid of sailing. “This one no want mate-touch. Not mates.”

“Yes mates,” Jazz said. “This one… “ her words failed and she resorted to gestures. “Spark,” she held her fist over her chest and made a deliberate line outward that ended with her opening her hand toward Prowl. “Your spark.” Then she reversed the gesture, ending with her fist over her spark again. “Yes mates. Take, mark, gift. Mates.” After a short pause she tacked on, “But no scare. This one stop.”

Prowl wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that. Jazz’s gestures certainly seemed to imply a sparkbond, but they weren’t bonded now (and if Jazz meant what she said, that she would stop if Prowl said to, they wouldn’t ever be). Yet she clearly considered capturing Prowl and painting on her enough to call them mated. Bonded versus mated… was it a limitation of the language causing the confusion, or a difference in their cultures?

Curious, but unsure where to begin asking questions, Prowl decided to postpone more difficult conversation until after a much simpler one: “Hungry?”

“Yes. Will get. Prowl no hungry!” Jazz scrambled for one of the ropes hanging overboard and pulled it up. Prowl expected the same crate of shelled things, so she was slightly surprised to see it come up empty. Jazz examined the crate, poked it, then threw it back in and moved onto another rope.

That one also came up empty.

The third came up with just two of the creatures, when Prowl was sure there had been more in the crate before. Jazz butchered the first one with the same brisk efficiency as she had when feeding Prowl the prior evening. She held out the shallow shell bowl to Prowl.

This time Prowl took it and drank without hesitation, eager for the fuel. It was a little tricky balancing it at first with her wrists still tied, but she managed not to spill any. Which was fortunate, since there wasn’t a great deal of it. Prowl licked the shell to get the last drops of energon from it, still feeling hungry after last night’s exertions. The cables in her neck, back, and arms all ached, and the way she had to contort her arms to hold the shell aggravated them. She lowered it with a sigh of relief, wishing there was another.

No sooner had she had the thought when Jazz was taking the empty shell away from her and pressing the second into her hands. It was only half-full, like she’d started on it, but she was insistent when Prowl tried to push it back.

“This Jazz fuel,” Prowl protested, even as her fingers curled gratefully around the shell. “Is good Prowl take?”

“Prowl no hungry,” Jazz repeated.

She didn’t need any more encouragement than that. This time Prowl drank more slowly, letting the flavors linger in her mouth. It was subtly different from the one last night. Because it was younger? Because it had absorbed different trace minerals over the course of its life? It was the same kind of creature, that much was certain. Prowl flipped the shell over when she finished, examining the not-quite uniform coloration on its back.

“Where other shell?” she asked, curious to compare them. Jazz handed over the one she’d finished first, but Prowl shook her head. “No, _other_ other shell.” This would be so much easier if they both spoke the same language! But Jazz didn’t seem to understand much Praxan, and Prowl was reluctant to attempt anything in Polyhexian. Everything she’d learned came from books. Her accent was likely atrocious, and even if it wasn’t, a part of her was reluctant to reveal her knowledge to Jazz. The islander would probably mistake it as another sign that she was a perfect mate. “Jazz still have first-first shell?”

It took a few repetitions and Jazz seemed utterly mystified as to why Prowl might want to look at the shell of the creature she’d been fed last evening, but once Prowl managed to convey the desire she shrugged and scrambled across the deck of the catamaran. Prowl thought she might go to the cargo stored in the other hull, but no. Instead she pulled up the first trap she’d checked. This time the trap had one of the mechanimals in it, which pleased Jazz and she hauled up another crate — this one _was_ the same one Prowl remembered from last cycle — already filled with the creatures. Jazz transferred the newly caught one to the, what? Storage crate? Then she dumped it back overboard.

After that she pulled something from the trap and scrambled back to Prowl, holding out the three broken pieces of shell for Prowl to examine.

Prowl looked at the pieces in dismay. While it made sense that Jazz had found a use for the scraps she’d saved, it meant what she could learn by comparing the shells was limited. Gingerly she picked up the biggest of the three pieces and compared it to the two from this cycle. All three of them were slightly different colors, with the broken one being no more different from the others than they were to each other. But the curve of the outer edge was slightly sharper, indicating it had been smaller, though of course Prowl couldn’t tell now precisely how much smaller it had been.

Jazz watched her curiously.

“May I have my bag please?” At Jazz’s head tilt, she rephrased in the trade argot. “Bag,” she pointed to where it sat, just out of reach, “please.”

She was watched like a cyberhawk while she tucked one of the shells from this cycle into it. If the same difference in taste manifested in others, she would have this cycle’s shell to compare them to. She wished she dared try and keep her bag, but any escape would require Jazz let her guard down, if only for a short time, and she would do so more readily if Prowl seemed cooperative. She handed both her bag and the shells to Jazz. Her bag went just out of reach again, while the shells joined the saved scraps from this cycle’s meal. To be used as bait next time they stopped, Prowl supposed.

“Like see?” Jazz asked suddenly.

Like see? Like seeing… What? The shells? “Yes,” Prowl answered cautiously, because yes, she very much liked being given the opportunity to examine the shells, liked that Jazz hadn’t given even a token protest about her keeping one of them.

“Hands,” Jazz demanded. Confused, Prowl held out her hands and was utterly astonished when Jazz untied the rope binding them.

“Thank you,” she said, trying to keep the question from her voice. Why was Jazz doing this? And what did it have to do with shells?

Jazz pointed out to the entrance of the cave — more like a deep depression in the cliff face than a true cave. “No swim out. Bad water. Danger.” She pointed up to the walls and ceiling. “No climb. Fall. Danger. Safe for Prowl off boat here. Like see. Go see!”

Go see? Prowl looked around the inside of their shelter. There was a narrow strip of sandy beach at the back along the cliff wall. It led to nowhere and would be useless to try to escape from, but even from where they were floating Prowl could see several small objects on it — shells! Of course, more shells. And Jazz was allowing her the freedom to swim over and look at them.

“Thank you!” she said again, this time much more enthusiastically. She stood quickly, curious to see what kind of shells they were — and once again fell back down as the boat rocked with her movement. “Oh!” She gave a frustrated huff as she hit the sleeping pad, perfectly unharmed but a little embarrassed and a lot annoyed. She really needed to get the hang of moving on the catamaran!

“Again,” Jazz didn’t offer to help.

That was fine. Prowl wanted to learn to do this on her own. This time, moving more slowly, she got her feet back under her and braced herself with a hand on the rim of the hull. Only then did she stand, keeping her feet farther apart and using her free arm and doorwings to balance. It still took some getting used to, but she was able to let go of the hull and straighten fully without falling.

Rather than jumping overboard right away to begin swimming, Prowl took the opportunity to practice a few steps, wobbling as she made her way up and down the sleeping pad, but never losing her balance completely again. The uneven surface and the movement of the boat, gentle as it was, was a lot to compensate for at first. But Jazz moved about the boat with no difficulty at all. With practice — possibly more time than she would have _to_ practice — it was a skill Prowl was sure she could master as well.

Done pacing for the moment, Prowl turned to the side and looked out into the red water. It was clear and deep, deep enough she could jump in without worrying about hitting anything on the rock-strewn sandy bottom. Still, rather than try a standing jump, Prowl carefully sat down on the outer edge of the hull and one by one swung her legs over the side. Then she pushed off, away from the boat and into the water with a _splash!_

Prowl wasn’t so heavily built that she sank like a stone; there were several lighter components in her frame, though not enough of them to really float, either. Swimming up to the surface was an effort, and when she broke through she grabbed the side of the catamaran to keep from drifting back down. Looking up she saw that Jazz had come over to watch her. Brazenly she flicked water up at the warrior’s painted face, then curled up and launched herself off the side of the boat with her legs, propelling herself towards the beach with as much force as she could. It wouldn’t carry her all the way there, by any means, but the less she had to struggle to swim both forward and upward, the better.

Behind her, Prowl heard Jazz’s entrance into the water as she bounded off the boat to dive right in with much more grace. Prowl could just see the islander swimming beneath her, but didn’t have the attention to ponder it around her own struggles to stay afloat.

When she was close enough, Prowl let her feet drop to the bottom and walked the rest of the way up onto the beach. The brown rust sand wasn’t so loose that it sucked her down, and once she was standing on what little dry land there was, she fluttered her doorwings to shed the water from them and rolled her shoulders, which were both protesting and glad of the movement after being so still and stiff. Jazz followed her up onto the beach, doing a thorough full body shake to get the water off her armor.

Prowl nearly jumped out of her plating when Jazz touched her shoulder a moment later. “What are you doing?” It wasn’t a quick touch to get her attention either. Jazz’s hand lingered, trailing up over her shoulder and onto her back, resting over a point between her neck and doorwings. “Why—” she broke off as Jazz _dug_ her fingers into her back, the pressure releasing a burst of pain, but then a relaxing warmth. Prowl gasp/sighed, feeling one of the cables that had been plaguing her start to loosen.

She sat down in the cool sand when Jazz’s other hand came up to mirror the first, not sure she’d be able to stay standing if she kept… doing… that!

“Coo~rru,” Jazz crooned, following Prowl down. She smoothed her hands along Prowl’s plating, then dug her fingers in again. The sharp pain was followed by limp pleasure and Prowl let out a soft, undignified, groan as she leaned into the touch. “Coo~rru,” Jazz crooned again, then started to hum.

Prowl wasn’t sure how she was supposed to stay aware of herself while Jazz did whatever this was. She felt like a limp rag being wrung out. It was wonderful and she let herself melt into it, her frame loosening until she sagged against Jazz completely, the soothing touches both easing her aches and holding her up. A small part of her processor tried to protest, but it wasn’t able to gain much traction. She might not be accustomed to others touching her very much, but this was nice. Prowl had no reason to complain.

Jazz made a happy sound and stroked Prowl’s back and shoulders, then made another happy croon when Prowl only wiggled in pleasure. She guided Prowl down to lay in the cool sand, arranging the Praxan femme comfortably and stroked again. When Prowl didn’t protest, Jazz straddled her across her lower back and began pressing again.

Prowl _melted._

She groaned in pleasure when Jazz’s hands returned to her doorwings, manipulating and stretching the joints until they too melted, laying limply against her back. Jazz stroked them gently, reverently. Warmth spread across them from Jazz’s touch and coiled in her torso, below her spark. It was starting to feel different somehow; like the touches were building a kind of tension now, rather than releasing it. Prowl shifted against the sand, a soft sound of confusion whispering past her lips.

When Jazz pressed _her_ lips to her spine between her doorwings, Prowl froze again. What was she doing? Why did she _keep_ doing it? The gentle mouth-touches continued along her spinal strut, while Jazz kept her fingers moving over Prowl’s doorwings as a counterpoint, building sensation until Prowl was back to shifting and twitching, unable to hold still. It was getting to be too much…!

“S-stop! Please!”

Immediately Jazz had swung herself off Prowl to crouch beside her, comfortingly close but not touching. Prowl still felt like she could feel her hands on her. Her doorwings were buzzing, and that knot of tension completely different from the tension in her cables (which was _completely gone)_ was still there, a source of restless energy that she didn’t know what to do with. Laying still wasn’t helping, and Prowl didn’t feel up to standing again. But the water was right there… Tucking her wings down, Prowl squirmed across the sand and then rolled into it, the shock of the temperature change and the roughness of the sand against her panels causing her back to arch as she lay there, half-submerged and gasping before she could finally relax. It no longer felt like she had sand itching beneath her plating, though the irony was that she probably _did_ have sand under her armor now after wallowing in it like this. Oh well. Swimming back to the catamaran would take care of that before it could become too irritating.

Prowl let her helm fall to the side to regard Jazz, who was still crouched in the sand where she had lain, watching her. She tilted her head, considering Prowl with an unreadable look. Prowl looked away, leaning her head back to stare up at the stone outcropping above them. That had been — well, objectively, it had been _good,_ but Prowl wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it. It was confusing to think about. Perhaps they could try to talk about that too, through the difficulties in their communication. Later, when it wasn’t so raw and fresh in Prowl’s mind.

Prowl heard the footsteps in the sand just before Jazz entered her field of vision, looking down at her. She wondered what the other femme was going to do. Was she planning on picking up where she left off? (Did she _want_ her to?) What was she going to say if Jazz asked what had happened? Was Jazz going to scorn her for her reaction?

None of the above, it seemed. Silently the Polyhexian warrior held out a shell the size of her palm, shaped like a raindrop and the color of deep cobalt. Prowl lifted her arm to touch it, then carefully took it from Jazz and sat up in the sand to examine it. The surface was a rich, nearly uniform color, slightly paler around the edges. Flipping it over revealed that the back was identical — a second cobalt shell attached to the other at one end. Prowl thought she remembered seeing shells like these at the market in Hightower, though they had been opened or broken apart. Would the inside be the same pearly grey-white as those?

Prowl turned the shell in her hands curiously, looking for a way to open it.

Jazz made a pleased engine rumble and crouched in the sand, just out of reach of the waves to watch.

There weren’t any gaps along the sides of the shell big enough for Prowl to pry her fingers into. The two halves fit together nearly seamlessly, and the rounded shape made it hard to get a grip on. She tried holding it in both hands to pull it apart, but it kept slipping. Even when she bent over to brace it against the sand, she wasn’t able to get it open. Sitting back up with a small huff of frustration, Prowl glanced at Jazz. She was afraid she’d see scorn, or derision for her ignorance, but Jazz was still watching patiently, letting Prowl figure it out for herself.

It was a strange feeling. Her teachers had always just shown her what to do, until she’d surpassed them, and she wasn’t sure what to do with Jazz’s confidence in her.

She looked at the shell again, thinking carefully. Jazz had pried apart the creatures from the crate with a knife, one with a thin blade. Perhaps it would be narrow enough to get into this without damaging it? “Knife?” she asked, wondering if Jazz would give her a weapon like that, even if she had no intention of using it on anything but the shell.

Without any apparent hesitation, Jazz pulled a short — only about the length of her palm, from the pommel to the point — thin bronze knife with a relatively wide, straight blade and handed it over. It was different than the one she’d used to butcher the clawed creatures, which had been much longer with a shallow curve. Prowl took a moment to examine the knife: the blade was unadorned and gleamed with the look of well cared for metal, while the hilt was made of some other metal wrapped in cloth.

Bracing the shell in the sand again to keep it (and the knife) from slipping, Prowl carefully placed the point of the knife in the tight seam where the two halves joined together and wiggled it back and forth in an attempt to work it between them. At first she thought she was finally getting somewhere. The thinnest of cracks started to open along the shell, the knife wedging itself in just a little further. Then it slipped, sliding out of the crack just before the shell snapped shut again.

It wasn’t just locked closed — something inside was pulling it closed! A mechanimal of some sort? Though Prowl had never heard of one that so resembled a stone.The mystery just made her more determined to get the thing open so she could see. She muttered a soft curse and tried again, only for the same thing to happen. She managed not to cut herself when the knife slipped, at least, but she wasn’t making any progress with the shell. A third attempt was enough to convince her that however these things were opened, it wasn’t how she was going about it.

She held up the shell in one palm and the knife in the other, offering both to Jazz. “How open?”

Jazz dropped from her crouch to sit in the sand, one leg folded over the other, and held out her hands. Prowl passed the knife and the shell back to the islander and watched. At first it didn’t seem like Jazz was doing anything differently than Prowl herself had: she held the shell securely in one hand and worked the point of the knife into the seam between the two shells. But when the crack appeared, instead of continuing to work the knife gently into it, Jazz thrust it hard into the shell, forcing it further open, then gave the knife a sharp twist. With a _crack!_ the hinge gave way and the top shell popped all the way free.

“Oh!” So that’s how it was done! Prowl leaned in to get a better look. Inside there was a slimy, bluish brown mass, which Jazz scraped off the shell with the knife, impaling it, then offered to her. Delicately, Prowl pulled the thing off the end of the blade and held it in her palm, watching it quiver. It felt like gelled energon… sort of. There was definitely some give to it when she poked at it with her finger, but it didn’t break apart under pressure the way a gel would. Except for the gash in it from where Jazz had stabbed it, the thing had a surface tension that pulled it back into the same lumpy blob when left to rest.

“What call this?” Prowl asked, poking it again. “What use for?”

 _“Midye,”_ Jazz gave the Polyhexian word. “Midye dol,” Prowl recognized the second word: _cold._ “Food.”

“Food?” Prowl’s optics flicked between Jazz’s face and the midye in her hand. Perhaps comparing it to gelled energon had been more apt than she realized. “All midye, food?”

“All,” Jazz struggled with the words. “All that,” she pointed at the one in Prowl’s hand, “yes. All midye,” she sketched out several shapes in the sand, all teardrops, but Prowl saw slight variations in the shape. One was blunter, with a much wider curve. She pointed to it. “No.”

That hadn’t been what she’d meant by her question — Prowl only wanted to know if she was supposed to put the whole thing in her mouth or if anything needed to be removed, like from the other creature — but she was pleased by the additional information. “Yes,” she repeated, drawing a circle around the teardrop shapes in the sand, excluding the blunt one, then pointed to it. “No?”

Jazz gave a big smile. “Prowl good. Smart.” She caressed her chevron briefly. “Good mate.”

This time Prowl didn’t contest the word. Jazz was going to keep calling her her mate, whether she wanted her to or not. It didn’t really matter all that much; once she escaped, it would be a moot point. She was more interested in the fact that Jazz thought she was smart. Her intelligence was something Prowl took pride in, and it felt good to have it recognized even here. There might not be books to study from, but there was still plenty she could learn!

Starting with what midye tasted like. Bracing herself for an odd texture, Prowl brought it to her lips and bit into it. It tasted… rusty, like the water it had been in, and it was hard to bite all the way through. She managed it though, and chewed the small morsel thoughtfully. A little gritty (probably from sand), definitely rusty, and on the whole more _solid_ than just about anything she had ever eaten before outside certain hard treats. This wasn’t hard though. If anything, it was rubbery. Prowl popped the rest into her mouth without bothering to bite more pieces off after swallowing the first, savoring the experience more than the flavor. It wasn’t bad, but it was strong. If pressed, Prowl would have to admit she preferred the clawed creatures.

“What,” she mimed a mechanimal with several legs with her hands, approximating the things Jazz kept in the crate as best she could, “called?”

 _“Nijan,”_ Jazz answered. She seemed pleased by Prowl’s curiosity. She picked up the two halves of the midye shell and handed them to Prowl. _“Kerang,”_ she said.

Wait, there were two words for the teardrop shell? Or, no, words for the shell and what was inside it. Prowl laughed. That was much more useful than just calling them _all_ shells!

Prowl rather expected Jazz to take over the language lesson at that point, bringing Prowl things and naming them, but instead Jazz waited expectantly. Waiting for Prowl to take the lead? She could do that! It would be different from the lessons where she was expected to listen through the entire lecture and then ask questions only at the end, but perhaps it would be better for being less structured. This way she could ask all she wanted about one thing before being forced to move on to the next.

And she could still create a structure, of sorts, to help her remember the words. Rather than asking about either the sand or the water, which were both right at hand, Prowl began looking around for other shells. There weren’t any like the midye where she was sitting — although that one shell fragment looked like it _might_ have been one, once — so Prowl got up, walking along the edge of the water until she found a broken piece she recognized as the same type of star-shell Jazz had used in her necklace. “This?” she asked, holding it up.

“Kerang _Xin,”_ Jazz answered, coming over to Prowl.

“Oh. So kerang is just shell.” Prowl smiled, then gave the Praxan word. _“Shell._ No Prax word xin.” What sort of thing lived inside these? Nothing, obviously, inside a broken one, but Prowl didn’t see any whole ones laying about. Moving on, she grabbed the next differently shaped shell she saw. It was similar to the midye, only smaller, more round, and not quite the same color. “Small midye?”

“Kerang _remis,”_ Jazz corrected. She examined the sand right where the waves hit the beach for something then gestured Prowl over. “Here,” she pointed.

Curious, Prowl went to see. At first there was nothing, but as the next wave came and receded, Jazz pointed again. There was a series of bubbles coming up from tiny holes in the sand!

“Remis,” Jazz said. “Want? Good.”

“Remis food?” Were they similar to the midye inside as well? “Yes. Xin food? Poly word, food?”

The cascade of questions amused rather than irritated Jazz. “Food, _makanan._ Remis, yes makanan. Xin, no makanan.” Forestalling further questions, Jazz dug her fingers into the red rust sand frantically. Sand combed through her fingers and was swept away out of the hole as she pursued the remis. “Aka!” she called out, and Prowl caught a glimpse of it, but it zipped out of sight, deeper into the sand. With a soft growl, Jazz went after it.

“AKA!” she called again, this time triumphantly as she pulled the shelled creature from the sand. This one was bigger than the empty shell Prowl had found, and a glossy brown color that turned blue around the edges of the shell. Prowl saw it reaching out of its shell with a long, prehensile tentacle, but when it encountered no more sand to burrow into, it pulled the tentacle inside and snapped its shell shut tight.

With a head tilt, Jazz offered the remis to Prowl with the previously forgotten knife. “Want try? Same as midye.”

“Yes,” Prowl answered, taking both. She looked for a spot to start the knife, then remembered Jazz had gone in more or less opposite the hinge. Turning the shell in her hand, she tried to do the same, slipping it between the two halves and then pushing sharply. It slid in, and Prowl regripped the knife and attempted to twist it the way Jazz had. She wound up fumbling it, the knife falling out of the shell entirely, but she thrust it back in and tried again. This time it opened, and Prowl shouted triumphantly. “I got it!”

“Aka!” Jazz praised. “Good! Now eat.”

The slimy gel-like blob was stuck well to the inside of the shell, but Prowl succeeded in scraping it off in the end. It didn’t look as neat as when Jazz had done it — she’d managed to cut it a few times before it popped free — but it was still in one piece when she picked it up and put it in her mouth.

The rust-taste of the water and the grittiness of the sand were the same, but the flavor of the remis itself was different from the midye. It chewed a little easier too, though that might have been because it had already been not-quite cut up before she tried to eat it. Prowl looked down at the empty shell in her hand, weighing it against the other. “Remis better food,” she said, though she thought the midye shell was prettier.

It wasn’t good enough food to divert her from her lesson any longer, however. Prowl was already looking around for other shells as she held her empty shells out to Jazz, not sure if they would be useful to her as nijan bait or not.

“Keep. Yours. Make necklace.” Jazz pushed the shells — the two midye halves and the two remis halves — back at Prowl.

“Keep? How?” Her satchel was still on the catamaran where Jazz had stowed it. She had no way to carry a bunch of shells around the beach, much less back to the boat. Not waiting for an answer, she walked up the sand away from the water’s edge and began a small pile with them. “Keep here now. Jazz carry back later.” She made an arcing motion with her hand, starting at the shells and ending at the boat. “Good?”

“Good,” Jazz agreed.

With that taken care of, Prowl wanted to know what _everything_ was called. She went over every footstep of the small beach, pointing at things, listening to the words Jazz called them, and talking about them as much as possible, gradually replacing words and phrases from the trade argot with their Polyhexian equivalents. Everything from all the various (and surprising number of) mechanimals to the rocks and sand they called home were topics of conversation and opportunities to learn. The midye grew in thick colonies on the walls of the cave, near and in the water, and there were tiny, flat cone-shelled things Jazz called _keong_ that the islander eagerly pried off the walls to eat. Prowl tried one too and found it the least gritty, most flavorful of the shelled things Jazz had offered her so far, but when Jazz let her try prying one up for herself, she simply couldn’t get them off the rocks!

At last, with the possibilities of the beach finally exhausted, Prowl decided to try her hand at digging up remis. Going back to the water’s edge, she knelt down and began looking for the telltale bubbles that would show where they were hiding. She still had the small knife, which she placed between her teeth to keep from losing it in the sand while she chased the burrowing critters. She heard Jazz splash into the water behind her, but didn’t look up. She thought she’d spotted — there! There were the bubbles as a wave pulled back, and Prowl started pulling away the rusty sand around them.

It wasn’t as easy as Jazz made it look, like most of the things the warrior did. Prowl lost the first one entirely after only just grazing the shell with her fingertips. Sitting back, she waited for more bubbles, then tried again. There had to be a trick to it, to digging in a way that displaced sand quickly enough to reach the remis. Digging too slowly just let the waterlogged sand sift back in the hole, covering them again. Prowl dug faster, focusing not on creating an empty hole, but instead on just getting her hands down into the sand.

Her fingers were sore from her efforts when she finally caught one, yanking it up to watch it snap shut defensively in her hands, but it was worth it. Smiling around the knife in her mouth, Prowl reached up for the blade and set to opening the remis, this time not mutilating it quite as much as she scraped it from its shell.

It tasted better for having caught it entirely on her own.

Prowl looked up, eager to tell Jazz what she’d done, only to find the warrior gone. Had she been abandoned? No, the catamaran was still anchored where they’d left it. Vaguely she recalled Jazz diving back into the water while she was absorbed in her search for the remis. But that had been a long time ago! Anxiously she watched the water, praying Jazz would come back up.

A breem later, Jazz did. Her head breached the gentle waves out near the boat. “Aka!” Prowl heard her call as she waved one of the harpoons, and began swimming back to the shore. She didn’t swim at the surface, like Prowl had, but ducked her head beneath the waves to swim below them. Prowl didn’t see her again until she stood up on the sand near the shore.

She immediately came over to Prowl and flopped to sit in the sand, sticking the harpoon, point up, in the ground to keep the fish on the end from acquiring any grit. Then she held up the other thing she’d brought to shore: a round… thing, covered in metallic fibers.

Prowl was already reaching for it when she asked, “What call?” It felt rough and coarse.

“Say,” Jazz answered in Polyhexian, which thanks to their earlier lessons, context, and Prowl’s previous studies (which she was no longer bothering to hide), she understood, “‘Whaddaya call this?’”

“Wa-daya call-this?” Prowl repeated, the words not coming out quite right. “Say ‘gain?” she asked, her accent better on those words for having practiced them already. She’d been pleased to discover that the pronunciations she’d learned from her books weren’t terrible, though so far she hadn’t tried using many words other than the ones Jazz had given her. Those tomes were more than proving their worth when it came to understanding Jazz, however. As much Polyhexian as the femme started throwing at her once she’d expressed her interest, Prowl would have been very lost, very quickly otherwise.

“Whaddaya call this?” Jazz patiently repeated.

“Whaddaya call this?” Much better! Prowl could hear it and see it in Jazz’s expression when she got it right.

“Aka!” Yes! Jazz held out the large fibrous ball again. “‘S called a kelapa. ‘S th’seed crystal of a _telapak tangan._ A,” she resorted to the trade argot herself to try and define the word. “Footprint crystal.” Then switched back. “Th’ kelapa’re good t’eat. _Very_ good. Ain’t easy t’find near th’mainland.” Jazz couldn’t seem to resist the opportunity to brag.

“Good t’eat… inside?” Prowl guessed, since she couldn’t for the life of her imagine how the exterior could be edible. She was starting to suspect that all Polyhexian food was disguised like this, hidden away where inlanders never looked. She held out her hands, silently asking to hold it. Jazz passed it over readily. The kelapa was surprisingly heavy, and when Prowl pulled it to her, that weight shifted. Something, some sort of liquid, sloshed against the interior.

Then Jazz spotted the new pair of remis shells from Prowl’s catch. She picked them up. “Aka! That’s very good, Prowl! Yer gonna be a great food-finder!”

“Thank you. Was hard t’catch,” Prowl admitted, distracted by shaking the kelapa to listen inside. She couldn’t hear any rattling, just liquid sloshing, but knocking on it indicated that the shell was quite thick. And hard. She felt around it, looking for a seam like the shells had, but found none. How was it supposed to open?

“Remis’re a good first step fer a food-finder. Yer gonna be good at it.” Jazz held out a knife. Yet a _different_ one. How many knives did Jazz carry? This one was long, thin and straight. She rotated the kelapa in Prowl’s hands and pointed out a shallow depression. “This knife’ll punch a hole right there. Then we can drink it. Ain’t sure we should yet. They’ll keep on th’ _kattumaram_ fer a lunar cycle or so. Whaddaya wanna do? We’ll open it if ya want. Ain’t likely t’find another ’til we go t’the Islands.”

Which, Prowl reasoned once she worked her way through what Jazz had said, would be never. She wasn’t _going_ back to the islands with her; whatever it looked like, she wasn’t going native. Digging for remis and wearing tribal paint did not mean she had agreed to be Jazz’s mate.

She didn’t really need the fuel now, not after so many shelled treats, but even if her appetite was satisfied, her curiosity wasn’t. “Open it,” she said firmly, reaching for the knife. “Punch a hole here?”

“Yeah.” Jazz guided Prowl to put the kelapa on the ground and hold it between her knees. Then she guided Prowl’s hand with the knife right over the depression. She reached into her sodden pouch and pulled out a rock, which she handed to Prowl. “Hit th’knife with this t’make a single, neat hole. Gotta do it in one strike, or the shell’ll split.” It was the most unasked for guidance and instruction Jazz had provided to her for doing anything thus far, but Prowl supposed it was the difference between failure resulting in a second try, or ruining good, impossible to replace, fuel. Still, she wasn’t taking the kelapa away to do it herself. Jazz was willing to let Prowl try, and potentially fail, on her own.

Nervous but determined, Prowl lined up the rock with the knife. She raised and lowered it slowly once to get a feel for the motion, then lifted the rock again and brought it down _hard._ It struck the flat top of the knife-handle a little off center, but the blade still sank down into the kelapa with the force of the blow, drilling through the fibrous exterior if not perfectly, at least effectively.

“Yes!” Jazz praised, cuddling up to Prowl’s side. “Time t’drink.”

Prowl scooted sideways in the sand a bit, wanting a little more space between them. Jazz was a lot more… well, many things, but in particular she was more tactile than Prowl was used to. It felt strange, touching so much. She just wanted to focus on the kelapa, not wonder where (probably her chevron, Jazz seemed to like touching it) the islander was going to touch her next.

Undeterred, Jazz pressed her lower leg against Prowl’s. This time Prowl only huffed and lifted the kelapa to her lips to drink.

Bright, faintly glowing blue energon was almost a _shock_ after the rubbery, gelled masses that were the remis, midye and keong. And, unlike the strange mixture of additives and rust flakes that was the nijan fuel, the liquid inside the kelapa was smooth, viscous and very, very sweet. That first sip hit her tank almost like highgrade. Prowl couldn’t help taking a second sip, trying to figure out what made it so sweet. She couldn’t tell. It wasn’t gold or silver. Something vaguely crystalline was all she could deduce.

She started to go for a third sip, but Jazz’s low, warm chuckle reminded her that there were two of them, and only one kelapa. “This one apologizes,” she said, sheepishly holding it out. That was absolutely delicious. Jazz hadn’t exaggerated when she’d called it _very_ good.

“I’m sorry,” Jazz corrected, again prompting her to use Polyhexian, but this time she didn’t wait for Prowl to repeat the words. “And y’don’ need t’be. Y’can drink it all, if y’want.”

Sacrificing her share again, just like with the nijan. “Jazz drink too,” Prowl insisted, not wanting to be _too_ greedy. She really had already eaten enough, and, potent as the energon in the kelapa was, she wasn’t sure it was a good idea for her to drink all of it. “‘S very good.”

“Is,” Jazz agreed. “S’why y’should drink. I ain’t hungry.”

“…Y’sure?” It was hard to turn that down. Prowl wavered, the kelapa still in her outstretched hands. “I can drink all it?”

“I can drink all’a it,” Jazz corrected, then answered. “Can.”

Prowl caved and brought the kelapa back to her lips for another sip. It was _so good…_ She was going to have the guards scour the market in Hightower to find them for her, if any of them ever appeared there. It was too bad she still had no idea what a _telapak tangan_ was. If the kelapa weren’t common outside the islands, whatever they came from must be rare too. Not likely they’d see one so Jazz could put a visual to the name for her.

There was a good amount of energon inside the shell, probably enough to have filled one of the highgrade flutes back at the castle. Prowl savored it as slowly as she would one of those, though the only real intoxication from the kelapa came in the form of having eaten too much beforehand already. That, and its sweetness. It was just as well she didn’t need to eat anything else; after this, even keong or nijan would taste bitter.

Eventually it ran out, of course. Prowl didn’t care how silly she looked as she tilted her head back and raised the kelapa up to get the last drops, only setting it down when there was really nothing left. It was still fairly heavy, though without the liquid inside it was a little bit lighter. It rolled on the sand when she let it go until it reached the water where it — floated! Prowl hadn’t expected that!

“‘S like the catam-er, kattumaram,” she exclaimed, chasing after it so it wouldn’t float away. It wasn’t so buoyant that she couldn’t press it down into the water, though she kept the hole she’d punched in it facing up so it wouldn’t fill with it as she watched it bob, gently riding the waves exactly like the little boat.

Jazz chuckled warmly again, letting Prowl play with the empty kelapa for about a breem before calling to her. “‘S got more fuel inside. Y’want me t’show ya how t’git it?”

It still had fuel in it? Really? Prowl had been certain she’d gotten every single drop, but Jazz was the one who knew how to find and eat the various hidden energon sources out here so Prowl couldn’t really _doubt_ her. Intrigued, she brought the (empty! It had to be!) kelapa over to where Jazz waited.

“See th’fibers?” Jazz said, petting the metallic hairs in question, “How they kinda go all th’same way-ish?”

“Yes.” Actually Prowl had noticed that before, and wondered why they grew that way. “Why’s that… good?” It wasn’t quite the word she wanted, but neither “important” nor “significant” had made it into her Polyhexian lexicon yet.

“After it’s empty’a th’liquid, y’can use ‘em t’find th’right spot t’break ‘em open,” Jazz explained, brandishing the short twisty-pry knife. “Feel this point ‘ere. Bit sharp.” Prowl put her hand on the spot and nodded. It was almost exactly opposite the depression they’d punched through, slightly more pointed than the rest of the spheroid. “Follow th’fibers, with yer fingers. Ya’ll find a line where they don’ grow, runnin’ from th’hole t’the point.”

She handed the kelapa to Prowl to let her look for the “line” herself. It took a bit of doing, since she wasn’t familiar with what she was looking for, but then it just sort of popped out. No wonder Jazz had said to look with her fingers! Even touching it with her fingertips, she still couldn’t _see_ the seam at all. “There,” Prowl announced, tracing her finger along it. “Whaddaya do next?”

“Take this,” Jazz held out the twist-pry knife, “and use th’rock t’poke it inta th’shell just like ya did with th’first knife t’open it. Only instead’a makin’ a hole, yer gonna twist it open like th’remis.”

Prowl did what she was told, knowing she would only get one attempt at this. _Kksssshing!_ The kelapa broke open into its two halves with a glass-like shattering sound. Inside the rather plain rusty brown shell was a thick layer of pale milky energon-blue crystals, like a geode.

“Yes! Just like that,” Jazz praised. She picked up one of the crystals that had broken free when it had opened and held it out to Prowl. “Try it.”

Expecting it to be sweet like the liquid had been, Prowl did so eagerly. Then nearly spit it out. It was dry and chalky and tasted like acrylic! “This’s food?” If it was, Prowl didn’t want to eat it. She glared at the deceptively beautiful crystals. “It don’t taste good.”

“Don’t,” Jazz agreed. “Some mechs like it plain like that, but there ain’t many. Next step’s t’crush th’crystals.” Jazz took the twist-pry knife and nudged the rock towards Prowl again. “Just like this.” She smooshed the crystals with the knife’s pommel, breaking them from the inside of the shell and swiftly pulverizing the fragile crystals into a coarse, sandy texture, right there in the shell.

Taking the second half of the kelapa and the rock, Prowl did the same. The crystals came off the sides of the shell easily, and they ground down quickly without too much effort. It was almost like they were hollow, and Prowl pictured the sweet energon flowing over and through them, helping them to grow. Jazz had said it was a seed crystal; they certainly were as delicate as any seed crystals Prowl had encountered.

She stopped once all the crystals had been reduced to powder, looking to Jazz for the next step.

Switching knives to the long, thin one she used to butcher the nijan, Jazz retrieved one of the fish she’d brought back on the harpoon. Slicing it open over Prowl’s impromptu bowl, energon welled out of the creature and fell on the powdered crystals. “Hold it,” Jazz said. “Git all’a th’fuel out. Mix it with yer fingers when y’got it all.” When Prowl took the bleeding creature, Jazz did the same to the second fish and her own bowl of powdered crystals.

This was interesting. Prowl made sure to get all the fuel out of the fish before setting the corpse aside. Jazz would probably want to use it for bait to catch something else later. Then she began kneading the mixture with her fingers. It was sticky and her fingers were quickly covered with the glittering substance. She noted how it eventually made a thick paste. It looked familiar…

When Jazz took a small scoop of her paste and rolled it into a ball and held it out to Prowl, she recognized it. It was a candy! One of the few solid Polyhexian fuels for sale in Hightower and the only one sweet enough that Prowl had called it a candy, anyway. But those had been hard — _crystal_ hard, she realized. Good to nibble on, but hard to simply pop into her mouth and chew. These fresh paste balls promised to be much softer! Rather than taking the one Jazz had made, Prowl rolled her own, holding it up to compare before giving it a try.

Soft, subtly-sweet flavor burst on her tongue. It was nowhere near the intensity of the energon from the kelapa, but it was pleasant following it. The paste had just a hint of crunch to it from the crystal bits Prowl hadn’t ground as finely as the rest, but they weren’t bland or bitter when she bit down on them.

Prowl rolled more balls as she slowly chewed the first one, wondering what they were going to do with them all. How long would they take to harden like the ones from the market? How long would they keep?

She asked as soon as she’d swallowed the last of the candy. “These stay good long? When d’they get hard?”

Jazz had eaten one of her own while she continued to roll up the little balls from her own paste, piling them in the bowl as she went. “Git hard… sunrise, maybe two, if they stay dry. They’ll spoil if they git wet before they finish drying though. Once they’re hard y’can keep ‘em… dunno. Ricochet and me, we always seem t’eat ‘em before they spoil.” Finishing up, she started licking the sticky paste clinging to her fingers off, cleaning them and letting none of the precious crystals go to waste. “Eat as many as y’want though. Don’t have’ta wait.”

Prowl finished rolling up her paste and cleaning her fingers (what Arcee would have to say if she could see her doing something like that!), then, unable to resist, took just one more ball. She was inching into being truly overenergized, and it was starting to make her feel drowsy. “Can’t eat more now,” she said, setting the shell where it wouldn’t get wet, then smiled, remembering. “Prowl no hungry,” she chuckled in the trade argot, the complete opposite of hungry. Then, not recognizing the word, “What’s Ricochet?”

“Who’s Ricochet,” Jazz corrected with a soft, fond smile. “Rico’s m’twin. We’ll pick’er up from Hightower before headin’ out ta th’Islands.” Her smile widened, seeing Prowl’s expression. “Y’certainly ain’t hungry now, no. Gonna have’ta go git th’kattumaram fer ya. Maybe ya’ll sleep t’night, instead’a scream, huh?”

Embarrassment spiked in Prowl’s field at the jab, though she couldn’t very well contest it. But it had been scary! The idea of laying in the hull while the little boat sailed along at what felt like an impressive speed still wasn’t a comforting one. Maybe this time Jazz wouldn’t tie her hands again, and she’d be able to sleep more comfortably with a full tank and not-sore arms.

She really did need to get working on that escape plan soon though. It was fine to indulge her curiosity when there was nothing else to do, but she should put her processor to planning a way out of here before they got too much further from Hightower — once she was able to focus enough to come up with anything that had an actual chance of success.

When she wasn’t so sleepy.

Jazz didn’t seem in a hurry right at the moment, sitting next to her, so Prowl started to lay down in the cool sand, only to be caught by Jazz’s arms and brought to lay against her. She looked up at the warrior, wondering if it was worth fighting her way out of the Polyhexian’s arms this time.

“Shouldn’t turn yer back on th’sea unless y’got someone holdin’ on t’ya,” Jazz murmured quietly. “S’pretty calm ‘ere, but that’s an exception.”

Oh. That made sense. And Prowl definitely didn’t want to get accidentally dragged out to sea, even if she agreed that it didn’t seem likely here. Maybe Jazz would let her lay alone at the back of the small beach against the cliff face? But she actually was comfortable here… Jazz’s legs were a warm counterpoint to the cool sand, and the gentle stroking of the hand resting on her helm… wasn’t so bad. Not normal, but not bad.

After a moment, Prowl decided to stay where she was. As long as Jazz didn’t start up on her doorwings again like before. Having had more time to mull it over in the back of her processor, she’d figured out what that had been about — the second part, at least. The beginning had just been relaxing and soothing, and she still didn’t have a word (in any language!) for it, but the end had been _arousing._ Prowl wasn’t so naive that she couldn’t recognize it in hindsight, even if she hadn’t in the moment.

The thing was, all of her knowledge about intimate activities came from books rather than practical experience. It wasn’t a requirement of her engagement with Arcee that she didn’t engage in amorous activity that had kept her from interfacing with anyone before; her inexperience was due to a lack of time or interest in such pursuits, not a lack of permission. Aside from her political duties, studying the stars and the magic she could derive from them took up all her time. Prowl found astronomy and magecraft incredibly rewarding, and didn’t feel she was really missing anything for not investigating avenues of physical passion rather than intellectual ones.

Besides, the thought of merging sparks with another mech or femme… Prowl couldn’t help being a little frightened by the idea. Easier not to think about it, if she didn’t have to, than worry about whether or not it would hurt or if her partner would like what they saw in her spark.

But it should be alright to fall asleep here, with Jazz. If she started doing… arousing things, Prowl would stop her, but until then, this was alright.

Later, she only vaguely remembered being placed gently into the catamaran’s sleeping pad and tucked in under the blanket with the kelapa balls. She _thought_ she might have murmured a sleepy agreement when Jazz told her to, “keep those safe,” but she wasn’t sure. She was already back in dreamland.

.

.

.

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

Sated — stuffed almost to bursting, in fact — warm and comfortable in the catamaran’s sleeping pad, Prowl drifted in and out of sleep. The rhythmic rocking of the boat as it skated across the water was still disconcerting, but she couldn’t summon the terror that would pull her from her comfortable cocoon to full wakefulness. She watched the stars, and dreamed of them, and dreamed of Jazz… As a result, she couldn’t be certain if she was seeing the pink star or dreaming of it. Or if the times Jazz appeared over her, crooning comforting words and sounds that weren’t words and stroking her chevron, face, or body through the blanket were reality or the conjurations of a peaceful sleep.

Some she  _ hoped _ were only dreams. She dreamed of Jazz holding her and petting her until she writhed in arousal on the edge of… something, that left her mewling and confused as darkness took her back into unconsciousness. She dreamed of sparkmerging with Jazz, but it was formless, uncertain, and left her recoiling from her own thoughts. Those she was near-certain  _ were _ dreams, because she didn’t remember what it had been like when she next opened her optics to see the stars. Had it hurt? She didn’t know… 

Mostly she dreamed simply of comforting, gentle, not-quite-chaste touches. Those left her the most confused of all, for she didn’t know if she  _ wanted _ them to be dreams or not.

This time it was the boat slowing, circling in preparation for anchoring, that woke her fully. Her hands were bound again, and her pouch out of reach. She’d hoped her cooperation last cycle had earned her some trust, but apparently Jazz wasn’t taking chances. She heard the heavy splash of the anchor being dropped into the water, followed by the smaller one of Jazz’s crate of nijan following. For some reason she didn’t set out the traps and Prowl levered herself up to see. Jazz didn't seem worried, smiling at Prowl in the pre-dawn light. Maybe this just wasn’t a good place to catch them?

“Hungry?” Jazz asked, and Prowl had to focus past the last lingering cobwebs of sleep before she could summon the Polyhexian words to answer.

“No.” After the way she had fueled — overfueled — last cycle, then slept through most of the night, she didn’t expect she would be hungry again for some time yet.

“Me neither,” Jazz responded with a stretch that would have showed off all the tantalizing gaps in her armor if it weren’t so dark still. She shook herself and came over to Prowl to take the blanket. With her hands bound, Prowl didn’t have the leverage to try and keep it, but Jazz didn’t go far with it. She simply slid down into the catamaran’s hull with Prowl, pushing her to lay back down in the process. Jazz settled between the Praxan’s legs and sprawled over her chest and, in a move that defied logic, brought the blanket down snugly over them both. With a contented sigh, she cuddled as close as she could, fitting their bodies together. Prowl was forced to wrap her legs around the Polyhexian’s waist and put her bound hands down on top of Jazz’s back in order for them to fit like this, both of which made Jazz respond with a happy sigh as she fell quickly into her own sleep.

Jazz’s plating was cold and wet, but under the blanket with Prowl’s heat she dried and warmed quickly. And she was  _ very _ warm where her plating pressed against Prowl’s, making her body tingle oddly, especially around her chest seam where they lay chest to chest. Wisps of dreams tugged at Prowl’s processor, but she forcibly terminated those thought threads. They weren’t doing anything. Jazz was just sleeping, resting after sailing all night. She was probably too tired for anything else, even if Prowl had been able to work out her own conflicted thoughts.

Of course, after sleeping for most of the time Jazz had been sailing, Prowl was wide awake herself. Now — tied and pinned — might not be a good moment to actually make an escape, but it was the first good opportunity she’d had to start seriously planning one. She inched her way up, one tiny, minute adjustment at a time, until she could lean against the cargo piled at the end of the hull. Making small sounds of sleepy discontent, Jazz shifted with her, so Prowl didn’t try and go far. Just far enough to lean against the cargo and see over the edge of the hull in the dawning light. Jazz settled again as soon as Prowl did and she breathed a sigh of mingled relief and disappointment.

The overwhelming shine of the sea, red and gold in the brilliant dawn almost blinded her. It took long moments for her to adjust, but when she did she saw they were anchored near land again. No incredibly calm but inconveniently escape proof cave this time. The boat rocked steadily with the waves she could hear breaking in the near distance, and a huge, black rock jutted from the waves to tower above them. She looked at in in awe. She knew, in theory, that the cliff face of the cave had to have been bigger, but she hadn’t seen it like she could see here. As big as the castle at Hightower, it loomed over them. Idly she wondered if it was a single solid rock, or a pile of them.

She twisted her head around to see that the rock was sheltering the boat from the worst of the waves, but the rest of the small bay was covered in gently sloped, red-rust sand dunes. The breakers she could hear were hitting the dunes. She could also see, if she twisted the other way, what looked like the mouth of a large river. That was promising, in that there was somewhere to go this time once she got away from Jazz. The challenge would then be in  _ staying  _ away from her.

Fortunately Prowl didn’t need to make it all the way back to Hightower, she just needed to evade Jazz long enough to join up with her rescuers. There was no way of knowing exactly how close the rescue party might be, but Prowl was confident they would be relatively near. Coming overland might be slower than sailing if the terrain was difficult, but they would have been moving as fast as possible, and with fewer long stops. 

Once she was away from Jazz, sending up another signal would have the double-edged benefit of letting both the rescuers and Jazz know where she was… perhaps it would be better to send up more fireworks as soon as she was on the dunes, before Jazz lost sight of her. That would prevent the rescuers from moving away from her as she was trying to reach them without revealing a hiding place to Jazz. Casting her firework spell again would cost her the one spell she could cast with her bonded ring though. She would have to rely on what she had memorized for anything else.

That was fine, she reasoned. There was no point holding back spells if she was going to make this work. And she  _ needed  _ it to work. She would pour everything she had into this to succeed. 

The wonderful afternoon in the cove beneath the cliff, trying and learning new things, would have to be a one-time memory.

She tried not to dwell on that afternoon, but her mind kept wandering back to it as Jazz slept on under the rising sun. She’d learned so much! So much about  ~~ Jazz ~~  Polyhexians and how they eked out their lives on a sea most mechs would think inhospitable. Far from being the fuelless wasteland of rust saturated water inlanders imagined, it was a land of hidden plenty.

It led her to the shocking hypothesis that perhaps Polyhexians didn’t mine for energon at all. Energon deposits were often buried, and needed refining before the fuel was edible; mining had been the standard way of finding fuel for all the kingdoms on the mainland for as far back as their history went, and it was thought Polyhexians did the same on their distant, unknown islands. But what if they  _ didn’t? _ What if this… this  _ food finding, _ this hunting and gathering Jazz had done these last few cycles was how they supported themselves? What would it change, Prowl thought, about their perceptions of the islands and their inhabitants if that were true?

She had thought the warriors, merchants, and warrior merchants to only be a small percentage of the Polyhexian population. There  _ had _ to be vast islands out there with cities and mines and miners hidden by the unbreachable waters and seasonal wars. But if there were no miners… Prowl started to imagine something quite different. Suddenly  _ most _ Polyhexians were warriors and gatherers like those that came to Hightower each trade season. The cities disappeared, replaced by… what? There her imagination failed her. She didn’t know. 

She  _ wanted _ to know!

She did  _ not _ wanted to be mated to one of them though. Which meant she had to focus.

Looking again at the dunes now that the sun was higher, Prowl could see that they were high enough to cast some promising shadows for her Shadow Jump spell. Good; if she had to swim from the catamaran to shore, Jazz would catch her. Probably before she made it more than a few strokes. The Polyhexian was a superb swimmer, as she had seen — if only briefly — in the cave, and Prowl was… not.

In the distance were the shadows of tall crystal forests. Those would be her goal. Perhaps she could drive across the sand, but she couldn’t hide in it. Even with her Vanish spell she would leave tracks, and the spell would not last through the night (nor mask the light from the ritual paint). She needed a place to hole up and hide, someplace the glowing paint on her armor could be concealed from view, and her best chance for that was the forest.

The thought of spending the night cold, wet, and alone in a depression under a fallen crystal made Prowl shiver. Jazz made a soothing  _ coo~rru _ and shifted to pet Prowl’s helm gently in her sleep, tangling them further together to provide comfort. The warrior didn’t wake, but the movement set all of Prowl’s plating buzzing again. When Jazz let out a heavy sigh as she settled again, the breath wafted across Prowl’s chest and collar strut and she had to stifle a gasping moan.

What  _ was _ this? Prowl had gone her entire  _ life _ without feeling any sort of physical desire. Her passions were for her spells, for the stars, for  _ learning, _ not physical release. She had  ~~ avoided thinking about ~~  not given much thought even to her bonding night. Now she couldn’t help but think of what might have happened if she hadn’t stopped Jazz last cycle in the cave. What could  _ still _ happen if she just woke Jazz up now… 

Prowl recoiled from her own thoughts. No! Even if it wouldn’t be cruel to give Jazz the idea that she might actually want to be bonded to her, there was something formless and anxious that stopped her from going that far even in her runaway thoughts. For her kingdom, she would endure the  ~~ pain ~~  discomfort of having her spark broken into, but not for a dalliance with a barbarian. 

Now if only her  _ body _ would actually abide by her decision and stop tormenting her with baseless arousal!

There were no stars to distract herself with in the light of day, so Prowl cast about for other things to focus on besides the weight and heat of the femme lying across her frame. The shore didn’t really provide anything — one sand dune looked very much like the next, and all roughly the same shape — but there were gulls and other birds strutting around on them and swooping through the air. Not all of them were birds she recognized, and she started cataloguing them in her head, creating a list based on size, color, and behavior. Some spent most of their time aloft, floating on the breeze before diving at the water, while others stayed predominantly on the ground, running back and forth along the waterline with the waves. They probably each had a distinctive call, but from where she was Prowl couldn’t tell which cry in the cacophony around her was coming from which throat.

_ Jazz would know…  _

Prowl let her head fall back with a sigh. She needed to stop thinking about Jazz. 

Forcibly, she turned her thoughts to something else. The rock. What kind of stone was it? What was its composition? Black wasn’t a common color for naturally occurring stone, was it? Could Jazz— 

What kind of crystals were those growing in the distance? They had to be quite stable to grow so tall into an actual forest. Were they the same as the ones that grew between Hightower and the city of Praxus? Were they the same as the ones that grew on the Polyhexian Islands? Were any of them the “footprint crystal” that Jazz had—

Prowl banged her head back twice against the cargo supporting her in frustration. So much for not thinking about Jazz.

She was watching the sun climb high into the sky when Jazz finally stirred and wiggled. “G’mornin’ beautiful,” she murmured into Prowl’s neck cables, pressing her mouth there briefly. 

Heat bloomed beneath the touch. Prowl tried to back away, but there was nowhere for her to go. “Mornin’,” she stammered, just as startled by what Jazz had said as what she’d done. Of course she’d been called beautiful before. She was a princess. Whether they meant them or not, mechs and femmes said plenty of nice things about her. But she’d never heard anyone say it so naturally, like they hadn’t even had to think about it before speaking. It was flattering in a way actual flattery wasn’t.

Jazz didn’t do anything further though. She just pushed herself up off Prowl and onto the deck of the catamaran. She smiled at Prowl and offered her hand to help the Praxan climb up with her. Intrigued, Prowl held up her bound wrists. She hadn’t been up on the deck yet. Jazz hauled her up like she weighed nothing and guided her to sit down next to her.

Being up on the deck was… different than being in the sleeping hollow in the hull. Ultimately not that much more exciting, but different. She could feel the wind a bit more, look around more freely, but that was really about it. 

“Thank you,” Prowl said, meaning it. Different was good!

“Of course,” Jazz breathed back, still cradling Prowl’s bound hands gently. Prowl started to ask why Jazz was still holding onto her when she brought them to her mouth and pressed her lips against the tip of one of Prowl’s fingers.

Prowl froze, caught between the desire to pull away… and the desire to see what Jazz would do next if she didn’t.

Slowly,  _ sensuously, _ Jazz repeated the gesture on each of the fingers of Prowl’s right hand. She looked into Prowl’s optics and quirked a small smile at whatever she saw there, then pressed her lips against one of Prowl’s knuckles, adding a bit of gentle suction. That was… strange. Not bad, but odd. Where was Jazz going with this? On to her next knuckle, apparently, again sucking gently before continuing on until she’d repeated the motions on each of the joints of Prowl’s hand. 

Prowl watched, curiosity overcoming her trepidation at least for the moment. Especially when, instead of moving up her arm, Jazz decided to repeat the whole process on her other hand. She nuzzled her cheek against Prowl’s fingers to press her lips against one of Prowl’s palms. “This okay?” she asked softly, looking at Prowl with a pleasure-dimmed visor. “Y’want me t’continue?”

“Continue?” Continue how? When Jazz’s touches brushed over her palm, Prowl felt a flicker of heat similar to when she had first woken up and whispered against her neck. Was that the purpose behind these touches? To generate that heat? 

To arouse? 

Prowl hesitated, unsure. Jazz was asking permission, but without knowing what she was actually asking permission for, she didn’t know how to respond. “Whaddaya mean, continue?”

“Just this,” Jazz said, pressing her lips to Prowl’s other palm, which made more heat, “or more, if ya want. Just wanna make y’feel good.”

“Feel good,” like she had with those touches to her doorwings under the cliff? That  _ had  _ felt good, but also intense and strange. And it led to other things; things Prowl didn’t want to think about. “I… I dunno.”

“Nothin’ else,” Jazz nuzzled Prowl’s hands again. “Just this. Promise.”

Well, if that was all… Prowl’s hands trembled slightly, but she nodded. “‘Kay.” 

Jazz made a pleased sound and mouth-touched her way across the backs of Prowl’s hands, stroking her palms with the very tips of her claws. She mouth-touched each of Prowl’s joints again, then nibbled her way up the underside of one finger to mouth-touch her palm again, this time adding suction  _ there.  _

More heat radiated up Prowl’s arms from the point of contact, stronger than before. It felt like excess electricity in her lines, buzzing beneath her plating as it searched for an outlet it couldn’t find. Where was it supposed to go? What was she supposed to do with it? She  _ wasn’t  _ opening her chestplates, that much was certain. 

She gasped when Jazz moved to the other hand, the sensation intensifying everything else she was feeling. “Jazz, ‘m not sure…” 

“It feel good?” Jazz rubbed her hands over Prowl’s, exploring the hair thin cracks and crevices between her armor plates. “Tell me what yer feelin’, Prowl. Beautiful.”

“Does feel good,” Prowl answered, optics flicking between Jazz’s hands wrapped around her own and the femme’s brilliant blue optic band. “But it’s — I ain’t never — it’s  _ warm.”  _

“Just enjoy,” Jazz soothed. “S’all just th’way it’s supposed t’be. Tell me if y’want me t’do somethin’ else, kay? But if yer likin’ what I’m doin’, just enjoy it.” She rubbed her hands against Prowl’s again, then again, this time stopping to press-squeeze gentle counterpoints to her mouth-touching.

The pressure reminded Prowl of what had happened in the cove, and she felt her doorwings twitch at the memory. Did that count as something else? Could she ask Jazz to touch them again, like she was touching her hands?

Did she want her to?

Jazz would stop at that, if that was all she wanted. She trusted that. So maybe — it wouldn’t involve merging, after all — maybe it would be alright?

The echoes of her dreams were all the extra push she needed.

“Jazz?” Prowl’s doorwings twitched again, this time intentionally to draw attention to them. “Please?”

Her hands still tingled when Jazz set them gently on Prowl’s knees and trailed her hands up one of Prowl’s arms. Too quickly for Prowl to protest, Jazz had resettled behind her and put her palms — warm, oh so warm — against the joints at their base. She  _ pressed _ her thumbs into them, rubbing hard circles at the same time as she mouth-touched the base of her neck between her shoulders. Tension eased beneath Jazz’s hands, but built where she touched Prowl with her mouth. “Good?” Jazz whispered. “Y’like?”

“Yes,” Prowl gasped back, wanting to both melt and arch into the touch. “Feels very good.”

“Good,” Jazz purred against Prowl’s back as she mouth-touched her again just below the previous spot. She stroked over Prowl’s doors, exploring. “Yer fine. Ain’t gotta do anything but enjoy.”

The tension — the  _ arousal _ very quickly built back up to the point where it had been last cycle. Prowl writhed, still apprehensive, confused, but she trusted Jazz wouldn’t hurt her. Jazz had told her to just enjoy what they were doing, so Prowl did her best to let go and do that.

Jazz’s fingers kept press-releasing her doors, following that warm, liquid relaxation with tension-building mouth-touches. Prowl gasped and mewed and wished she had the words to describe what was happening to her, but when she opened her mouth to ask all that came out were strangled cries. She had never been so out of control of her own body and processor before, but it felt wonderful!

Electricity continued to build and Prowl found herself rubbing her bound hands over the plating of her legs and lower abdomen, stimulating the sensitive spots Jazz had found on her palms and seeking out others in tortuous counterpart to Jazz doing the same on her doorwings and back. Where was the electricity supposed to  _ go? _ Prowl cried out, trying to ask, accomplishing nothing but more writhing and shivering in alien pleasure. A spark of fear blossomed. Too much excess electricity would damage her, wouldn’t it? But she still wasn’t feeling pain, just pleasure, and a little bit of desperation for… whatever was about to happen.

_ “Coo~rru,” _ Jazz soothed, the vibration sending sparks up Prowl’s plating from where her mouth had been nibbling at one edge. “S’alright. Yer alright. As long as it feels good, there’s nothin’ wrong.”

“Jazz!” Prowl tried to ask what was happening, but the words were stolen from her by the storm of pleasure. Her own traitorous fingers had slipped into the gaps around her pelvic plating and were rubbing the same rhythm Jazz was across her doorwings. In lieu of being able to actually say anything, Prowl gasped out the warrior’s name again. “Jazz!”

“Just let go, beautiful. S’alright.” The vibrations nearly overwhelmed the words. Clawed fingers wiggled into the gaps in Prowl’s armor, stroking the soft plating beneath. Prowl gasped again. “Just let go.”

_ Let go of what? _ She rocked mindlessly. Jazz hummed against the joints at the base of her doors. “Jazz! Ja—AAAAH!”

Her scream echoed around the bay, sending birds scattering into the air. Prowl arched in Jazz’s arms, taken by the sudden thunderclap of electricity, of pleasure, of  _ bliss! _

…And collapsed into Jazz’s arms, panting.

Jazz was singing when Prowl next opened her optics. Wordless — or at least no words Prowl could understand — and comforting, she wrapped her arms around Prowl’s torso to pet her chest soothingly with one hand. Prowl felt so warm and relaxed with the  _ pleasure _ still lingering in her body that it took her a moment to realize her chest seam had opened, only slightly. Jazz’s fingers didn’t intrude on the vulnerability. She kept her claws away from it as she stroked Prowl to the rhythm of the song.

Prowl still made the conscious effort to close her plating, though she remained draped against Jazz, thinking over what had just happened. She still had questions she wanted to ask, but the wash of contentedness and Jazz’s continuing touches slowed her processor, and she didn’t know the words she needed anyway. That had been… that had  _ been.  _

“Wha’ happened?” she finally mumbled, tilting her head back to look up at Jazz.

“Tempest’a ecstasy,” Jazz murmured back, talking in the same cadence of her song. “S’pleasure at its purest. Caught in it, y’were th’most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Prowl’s optics brightened as she made the connection.  _ Overload.  _ That was what an overload felt like. “And it didn’t hurt,” she whispered in her native language, awed.

“Wouldn’t hurt ya,” Jazz murmured, having understood the one word, if none of the others. “I can’t promise a life without pain — ain’t no one who could promise ya that, beautiful — but I can promise ya this:  _ I’ll never _ hurt ya.”

Intentionally, maybe. That much Prowl believed. But Jazz had still kidnapped her. Being away from everything she knew and loved was a different kind of hurt, one that the Polyhexian femme only planned to extend, for all the marvelous distractions she provided. Prowl  _ couldn’t  _ stay. She’d made her plan, and now she needed to stick to it.

Resolve burned away the post-overload lethargy in her limbs, and Prowl stretched in Jazz’s arms before struggling to sit up. Jazz helped her once she saw what Prowl was trying to do, and Prowl smiled at her. “Thanks. And… thanks, fer showin’ me that.”

“Was my pleasure,” Jazz purred. “Hungry now?”

“A little.” Prowl did finally feel hungry again after the largesse of the previous cycle. And perhaps Jazz would untie her to eat, affording her the opportunity she needed to grab her bag and teleport to the shore. “What’s t’eat?”

Jazz shrugged with a crooked smile. “Dunno yet. I’ll get us somethin’. Don’ go nowhere.” With that, she took three bounding steps to the edge of the boat and leapt up into the air. The boat lurched violently as Jazz did an elaborate summersault and with a loud  _ whoop! _ dove head first into the water with barely a splash.

Still tied, Prowl didn’t go any further than the edge of the tilting deck, staring at the place where Jazz had disappeared. How did she do that? Prowl would have been flailing and splashing terribly after falling off the side of the boat herself, not gracefully sliding beneath the waves after a flip like that. 

The water was clear enough to see a long way down, but Prowl couldn’t see Jazz. Where was she? She searched and searched, moving around the boat to look off all the sides but she couldn’t find Jazz. How long could a Polyhexian safely remain submerged? Praxans couldn’t stay long under water. It couldn’t be much longer than that… could it?

Prowl clutched the deck, fretting. Was she okay?

Suddenly Jazz burst from the water behind Prowl, sending clear red water over the deck as she hauled herself up with a triumphant yell. Prowl let out a surprised squeal and whirled around, only to slip and fall back on the deck. Jazz scrambled after her, catching her before she could slip more than a short distance. 

She didn’t seem in a hurry to let Prowl  _ go _ afterwards though. She held Prowl securely against her, nuzzling her door. The touch sent quiet tingles skittering across Prowl’s neural net, but between being covered in water and her focus on escaping, she didn’t feel any real heat this time. 

“Jazz,” Prowl protested, when the islander continued to cling to her, “I can’t eat with ya on top’a me like this.”

The other femme chuckled. “Don’t have’ta eat. Can just cuddle.” Despite her words, Jazz pushed herself up and offered her hand to Prowl to pull her up as well. When Prowl was securely seated again, Jazz scurried back to where she’d left the… whatever it was she’d brought up with her. 

Two things, actually. Both were flat and a sandy rust color with light and dark spots, but there the similarities ended. One was round and undulated its whole flattened body, flapping its flat, round tail. The other was rather triangular in shape and whipped itself back and forth as it struggled in the net. That one had a long, sharp looking tail with a vicious barb on it. Jazz went for that one first, grabbing it just above the barb to hold it still. Then she pierced it with the long awl-shaped knife before pulling out another tool — a grasper of some sort — to wrench the barb out of the thing’s tail. Then she dealt with the other, which she struck against the deck to stun it before piercing its head just like the other.

Grinning with satisfaction, she held out both to Prowl.

They each looked equally as strange to her, but Prowl found herself drawn more to the triangular fish. It looked like it was fairly strong, thickest in the middle leading down into its tail. She glanced over at the discarded barb, which appeared to have hard nodules along both sides. Something like that could do a lot of damage to thin plating or exposed cables, if it hit them hard enough.

Still, she wanted to know about both of them. “Whaddaya call ‘em?”

Jazz held out the flat, round one.  _ “Pataka.” _ With a look of concentration she translated into the trade argot. “Flat food-thing.” Then she brandished the strong, triangular one.  _ “Whai,” _ was the Polyhexian word and, “Sting-tail,” the translation. She held out the whai to Prowl. “Y’want it? S’good. S’good fuel. Hard’n dangerous t’catch.” She grinned proudly, and Prowl could tell she was showing off again. It was hard not to be amused by it, even if Jazz was probably hoping for Prowl to be awed rather than find her adorable.

Smiling, Prowl started to reach for the whai, then paused, waving her still-bound hands. “Would ya untie me?” It would make taking the fish (among other things) so much easier.

Jazz gave her a shrewd look and Prowl saw her calculating the distance between the catamaran and both the shore and the giant rock. Prowl did her best to look innocent. Luckily, after a moment of contemplation, Jazz set aside the mechanimal to work at the wet knots. 

Prowl’s wrists had been tied gently, if firmly, and expertly so as not to cause damage or cut off fuel to her hands. Prowl hadn’t struggled against the ropes, so they hadn’t chafed more than a few scrapes against her paint. Still, it was a relief to have the ropes off, to have her hands free. She felt much more sure of her balance when she knew she  _ could  _ catch herself, even though they were sitting down. 

“Thank you.” Prowl refrained from looking at her bag; she didn’t want Jazz catching onto her plan and taking it. Instead, she settled onto the deck to watch Jazz prepare the creatures for eating.

Which was, apparently very simply done. Jazz cut a slit in the whai’s plating and energon welled out of it. Then handed it to Prowl. “Drink.”

“That’s it?” After all the steps involved with the nijan and the kelapa, it was hard to believe the whai could be ready so quickly. She took it carefully to avoid spilling as much as possible. “Really?”

“Yep.” Jazz grinned and sat down heavily, sending the boat rocking a few times before it steadied again. She picked up the pataka, but instead of cutting into the plating bit through it, wasting none of the energon as she drank the resulting ooze of green-tinted blue energon.

Prowl tested the thickness of the plating on the whai with her tongue as she brought it to her lips and was grateful Jazz had cut into it for her. It was definitely thicker than she could have bitten through; possibly even thicker than Jazz could have bitten through, even with her Polyhexian fangs. There was a rough texture to the surface of its armor, rough enough to do damage if brushed the wrong way too hard. That aside, it tasted quite good. The energon was a bit more viscous than that of a nijan, but still flowed freely. Prowl hummed in appreciation of the rich flavor.

“Y’like it?” Jazz’s voice was a slight surprise. Prowl had thought her absorbed in her own meal. 

“Mmhmm.” She wasn’t sure exactly which minerals she was tasting mixed in with the energon, but it definitely wasn’t iron. That tang disappeared once the rusty water on the outside of the carcass was gone, leaving something smoother, more robust, in its place. Whatever it was, it was nice. 

After drinking enough that it probably wouldn’t gush when she set it down, Prowl finally lowered the whai so she could make a more articulate response. “‘S very good. Ain’t quite like anything I’ve had before.” She glanced at the pataka in Jazz’s hands. “What’s that one like?” she asked, wondering if they might trade so she could try them both.

“S’weak, but fast,” Jazz said. “Well hidden. Th’whai’s hard t’find. Strong’n fast, if small. Th’barb’s poison. Dangerous,” she bragged. “I caught it fer ya.”

Not what she’d been asking, but Prowl couldn’t help smiling again at Jazz preening over her catch. And the idea of a poison barb was much more interesting than tasting the pataka. “What kinda poison?” What would it do if someone touched it accidentally, or worse, had it puncture a line? “How dangerous?”

“Painful poison,” Jazz showed her sharp, energon stained teeth. She poked Prowl’s hand. “Hurts.” Poked further up her arm. “Yer arm’ll be paralyzed by pain. Can’t swim.” Then poked her chest. “Can kill.”

“Oh!” That  _ was  _ dangerous. Jazz had gone after it, knowing that, without being afraid of it? “Y’ain’t hurt, are ya?”

“Not a scratch,” Jazz boasted with a smile. Her visor sparkled with eagerness… and an unvoiced question of her own.

Prowl chuckled. “Impressive,” she said, guessing at Jazz’s silent inquiry. The warrior wanted to show off her skills, did she? Well, she’d succeeded. Prowl was impressed she’d gone after the thing, even if it was rather pointless. No matter what Jazz brought her, it wasn’t going to change her mind. She was leaving, just as soon as she had a clear shot at her satchel. 

Jazz scooted closer to Prowl. “Y’have a bit’a fuel on yer,” she gestured to Prowl’s face. “May I,” she touched her lips with two fingers, then touched Prowl’s with the same fingers.

Not completely sure what Jazz was getting at with her gestures, other than asking permission to touch her again, Prowl cautiously agreed anyway. “Yes? But no hot-touches. Please.” 

“Arousing touch,” Jazz corrected. “Could be, if y’really like. But I’ll keep it short.” She leaned forward, wrapping one hand around Prowl’s head to guide her and embracing her with the other. “Nothin’ t’be scared of,” she murmured a breath away from Prowl’s lips, then closed the distance for a brief mouth-touch to Prowl’s lips.

The contact wasn’t arousing, as promised, though Prowl could imagine now how it might  _ become  _ arousing after the way Jazz had kept doing that mouth-touch earlier. “What is that?” Prowl asked, the question brushing her lips against Jazz’s again. “Y’keep doin’ that, with yer mouth.” She’d never seen anyone else do it (which, if it was entirely sexual, made sense in reserved and private Praxus), but Jazz was treating it casually as well.

“S’called a kiss,” Jazz said, brushing her own lips against Prowl’s with the words. 

“A kiss.” Another word Prowl had no equivalent for. “…It’s nice. But,” she added quickly, lest Jazz think she meant she wanted her to continue, “I didn’t finish, and yer not done yet either.” 

“‘Kay,” Jazz whispered, pressing one last brief kiss to Prowl’s lips, barely more than a tap, then pulled away completely. She settled back onto the deck with her discarded meal and resumed sucking the energon out of it. She didn’t have much left. 

If Prowl was going to make a move, it needed to be now, before Jazz tied her wrists again.

Fixing her spells in her mind, Prowl lowered her hand towards the whai… then swiftly brought it back up to hurl the Binding Orb of Light blazing in her palm straight at Jazz. She didn’t wait to see if she had successfully entangled her; already pivoting on her other hand, Prowl threw herself back into the hollow space in the hull, snatched up her satchel, and looked up at the far shore. 

She was gone the instant she spotted a shadow to jump to.

The Shadow Jump spell usually required a verbal incantation, but she had memorized the spell so as to bypass that… this time. Casting it through her ring would be different, but right now she didn’t want to use it to teleport again. She needed her single unmemorized spell today to be the fireworks that would let her rescuers know where she was. 

With the materials from her bag, Prowl summoned the spell and sent them up, one after another, directly above her and out over the sand toward the forest. When the third one left her hand, Prowl stopped casting and took off running. She couldn’t stand around waiting to be rescued here on the sand; Jazz would reach her first, even if the rescue party was nearby in the forest. 

It wasn’t the easiest ground to run on. Rusty dunes quickly gave way to boggy, flooded salt flats, and once she got a little higher up she cursed. The river she had seen curving away around the giant boulder from the boat didn’t continue in that direction — it cut back the same way she was running, imposing itself between her and the crystal trees.

There was no way she could have heard the splash from here, but she looked back just in time to see Jazz disappear beneath the surface of the water. Prowl didn’t wait to see where she came out; she summoned a handful of illusory doubles of herself to run with her and  _ ran. _

It wasn’t long before one of those doubles disappeared in a flash of shadow and light, tangled up in Jazz’s bolas. Prowl didn’t look back. She concentrated on running as fast as she could. The brown swamp mud sucked at her feet as she tried to move over it, forcing her to yank herself free with each step.

Jazz tackled her — or one of her doubles, and she heard the other femme’s curse as the illusion disappeared in her arms and sent her sprawling to the ground. Prowl screeched as she leapt away. Looking ahead she could see no way past the river. She  _ had _ to get out of this swamp before Jazz caught the last of her illusions, or her. She would have to risk swimming it.

She heard the huff of Jazz’s vents as she came up on the riverbank and Prowl whirled to face her. Far from the gentle, graceful femme Prowl had spent the last few cycles with, this Jazz was different. Still graceful, it was a strange predatory grace that had Prowl edging away from her until her feet touched the water. A vicious snarl was painted over her face and a gleeful amusement lurked in her visor, like a cybercat playing with a particularly helpless prey mechanimal. Claws flexed, ready to rend and tear.

Prowl’s firework spell still lingered in her fingertips. She hadn’t been able to send off more as she ran, but she did so now. 

Having encountered this spell before, Jazz leapt to the side at the last nanoklik, turning her head from the colorful explosion to keep from being stunned by it. Desperately Prowl sent off another one, and again Jazz dodged it… but didn’t come any closer. Yet. The spell wouldn’t last forever.

A word, a gesture, and another Binding Orb of Light shot from Prowl’s fingertips. Expecting another firework, Jazz failed to dodge the sticky, entangling threads of pure light. She snarled like a mechanimal and Prowl squeaked in fear. She sent a firework at the entangled femme, who, unable to dodge, this time was engulfed in the festive explosion, leaving her stunned and dazzled.

Knowing it wouldn’t last for long, Prowl hurriedly waded into the water with a splash.

It was  _ cold. _ Colder than the seawater had been. The scholarly part of her automatically hypothesized that the river must originate as snowmelt, high in the mountains. The rest of her was busy just moving as fast as she could. 

It was also cloudy, the slow current saturated with silt, which gave Prowl an idea. She cast her Vanish spell, and, invisible, ducked under the surface of the water. She wouldn’t be able to hold her breath long, but the spell wouldn’t last long either. Hopefully she could maintain both long enough to fool Jazz. She moved with the current, back toward the sea and away from Hightower, trying to work her way closer to the far, forested edge.

The need for air in her engine drove her to emerge before she became visible again and she broke the surface just in time to see Jazz, on the far shore, take off upriver towards Hightower at a jog. Looking for where Prowl had/would come ashore if it wasn’t directly across from where they’d been, she quickly moved beyond Prowl’s sight. 

The invisibility spell ended before Prowl hauled herself, shivering, onto the beach. She was away. She wished she could stay here on the sun-warmed sand to dry and rest before heading into the cooler undergrowth of the forest, but Jazz wouldn’t be fooled by her unexpected direction for long; she’d figure out Prowl hadn’t swum towards Hightower soon and come looking downriver. Prowl needed to be gone before that. She needed to find the rescue party.

Looking at the clear trail she was leaving in the sand, Prowl wished she knew enough to cover it. Experimentally she brushed sand over her tracks. That worked away from the water, where the sand was loose, but down where the sand was firmer all it did was make the trail clearer. There must be a way to cover it, but Prowl didn’t have the time to figure it out. Disguising where she entered the forest would have to be enough.

Cold, wet, and afraid, Prowl entered the dense crystal undergrowth. Their sharp points and edges clawed at her paint, leaving even more scratches on her already devastated finish. It was deeply shadowed under the canopy of crystals, and while the glowing paint made her stand out like a beacon it wasn’t enough for her to easily see by. Figuring there was no harm while Jazz was still trying to track her, Prowl dug out another component from her pack and infused a remis shell with a simple Light spell to light her way.

She wished she dared signal again, but not only would that bring Jazz back down on her, she couldn’t send off any more fireworks. That spell had ended somewhere in the middle of the river, and the single illusory double she had walking alongside her would only last another couple kliks. She could cast that spell one more time, but she was getting low on magical options. The only way she could really signal now was to yell, and hope the sound carried through the thick crystals.

Holding off for the moment, Prowl did her best to keep the river at her back as she made her way deeper into the forest. She tried to guess when would be a good time to turn towards Hightower, to circle around Jazz as she came downriver and get in front of her again. The idea of her appearing suddenly out of the undergrowth with that fierce expression and glowing paint was enough to make Prowl shiver in a way that had nothing to do with being cold. 

She tried not to start and jump at every sound around her, but especially once the Mirror Image wore off, Prowl felt very vulnerable and scared. Casting it again too soon would waste its usefulness, so she postponed doing so, but she knew that meant Jazz would be able to target her easily if Prowl missed her catching up. There were no sounds of anyone nearby though; not Jazz, and not any kind of rescue party. Maybe they were farther upriver. She turned to walk parallel to the river, hoping her course would intersect theirs soon.

Her progress was measured in small bursts between pauses to listen and look around. It felt like she was getting nowhere, and her nerves were on the edge of snapping. Should she keep moving, or start looking for somewhere to hide? Just as she’d feared, the glowing paint made the latter a daunting challenge. She would need to find full coverage somewhere, and none of the crystal growths seemed to form any hollows, just jagged clusters and columns. Better to keep moving, and pray that she reached her rescuers before Jazz reached her.

Prudence had her recasting her doubles alongside that prayer when the forest went eerily quiet. It could have just been a reaction to her presence, but it could mean that Jazz was getting close.

It wasn’t paranoia if they really were coming after you.

As proven three kliks later when two of those doubles went down nearly simultaneously, one tangled in Jazz’s bolas and the other caught in her net. Prowl shrieked and whirled to face the islander.

Jazz had a kind, happy expression on her face now; Prowl backed away anyway, the memory of the barbarian’s rage sparking fear. Jazz’s expression softened further. “Was a good chase, beautiful,” she said kindly. “Yer so very, very clever.”

Despite the situation, Jazz’s words sent a shiver of pleasure down her spinal strut. Prowl had been applauded for political acumen, and allowed to indulge in her scholarly hobbies, but rarely had she been praised for being so smart.

But no amount of praise from the Polyhexian was enough to make her give up now (nor, that scholarly voice noted, had Jazz  _ asked _ her to give up). Jazz tilted her head as Prowl reached for her pouch again, this time for the expensive metallic dust that was the material component for her Compelling Fate spell. Jazz darted forward, trying to stop her casting, but suddenly Prowl could see her every move — her every possible move — before she made it. The stars revealed the future and let her react. For a very short time, a few nanokliks only, but it was enough for Prowl to dart around a crystal and into the underbrush.

A large mechanimal — one Prowl didn’t have the name for — was startled from its hiding place and bounded into the forest. Prowl took its place, whispering the Shadow’s Blessing spell so that the darkness under the crystal hollow wrapped around her, hiding her from view. It wasn’t invisibility, but simply wrapping her form into the shadows so she appeared to be only one of them.

Jazz came around the crystal after her, just as the future telling spell had said she would. Seeing the disturbance of the mechanimal running through the brush, Jazz started to run after it, as Prowl had hoped she would. Jazz hadn’t seen the creature, just heard and seen something large running  _ away… _ she  _ should _ think it was Prowl. The future telling had said she  _ would  _ think it was Prowl.

But only for a klik.

Jazz hadn’t even left the clearing before she stopped, breathed deep, and turned back.

_ “Very _ clever!” she said to what should have been an empty clearing. She took another deep breath, then let it out. She looked  _ happy _ she’d nearly been outsmarted. “But I know yer still here, beautiful. What other tricks do ya have fer me?” 

Not many, was the unfortunate truth, but Prowl wasn’t giving up yet. She had two more spells, and could try and entangle Jazz three more times before that power was spent. She could attempt another distraction with her Unseen Servant, but she was starting to think Jazz was tracking her with more than her optics. She didn’t know what that something could be, but an invisible spell-construct disturbing the brush and “running” away wouldn’t fool Jazz any more than the startled mechanimal unless Prowl knew just  _ what _ it needed to fool. Glitterdust also affected sight, which wouldn’t fool Jazz into following a false trail, but it should keep Jazz from following the true one for five kliks. Then Prowl could just run. 

She didn’t know what she’d do when Jazz caught her again. She  _ had _ to believe she could meet up with the rescue party before then. 

Jazz paced around the clearing, crooning out words of comfort and praise, following that extra sense that gave away Prowl’s position. 

Prowl waited until Jazz had her back turned and she was looking at those faintly glowing stylized wings she’d drawn on her. Using them as her target, she sent off another entangling orb. Jazz jumped away at the last nanoklik. 

She smiled, now focused on the hollow where Prowl hid. “I’ve seen that trick before, beautiful. Nettin’ me a third time ain’t gonna be that easy.”

True, but Prowl needed Jazz looking at her for the Glitterdust to do its work. 

A word and a quick gesture turned the handful of mica powder from her bag into a spray of intensely bright sparkles that covered everything Prowl could see. Crystal trees and shrubs that had shadowed the forest became illuminated pillars, corsuscating with a bright gold dusting of light that prismed into a forest of rainbows. Tiny mechanimals crawling through the now glittering ground became points of light that moved. Gold moving through gold. And Jazz.

Jazz let out a howl of surprise as she tried to rub the supernatural sparkles that covered her plating off her visor. 

Prowl moved and Jazz blindly leapt for her, just missing the Praxan mage. Prowl darted away, the sparkles and shadows making her almost impossible to catch. For good measure, she sent another entangling orb at Jazz to keep her in place. This one hit easily, wrapping Jazz in sticky strands of light that were barely visible among all the gold glitter.

Then Prowl ran, hopefully toward rescue.

She could hear Jazz behind her, sounds fading (not far enough) into the distance, but there were still no sounds of anyone else in the forest. Prowl ran faster, debating whether or not she could cover more ground in altmode. She could drive faster than she could run, but she wasn’t as maneuverable on her tires, and there were a  _ lot  _ of obstacles to dodge. Off-road racing wasn’t something Prowl had ever had the opportunity to practice; crashing into a crystal pillar or blowing a tire on uneven ground would set her back considerably, and was far too likely to risk.

How long did she have before Jazz was on top of her again? The Glitterdust would end any nanoklik now, and the Polyhexian femme would be hot on her trail, if she hadn’t already set off despite the hindrance of being blinded the instant the entanglement wore off. Whatever she was doing to track her, Prowl knew she was leaving an obvious trail this time, trading what stealth she was capable of for speed. 

Too bad Jazz seemed to be capable of both simultaneously. Prowl hadn’t heard her approaching either time before the bolas came flying at her. She wasn’t going to be able to dodge; without any doubles to hide behind, Jazz would be able to target her and take her down without any warning. One klik she’d be running, then the next she’d be falling, helpless on the ground as the warrior bore down on—

Wait! Was that…? Distracted from the terrifying prospect of being captured again, Prowl slowed just a little to listen better. It was! Prowl nearly let out a sob of relief to hear the sound of an engine ahead of her. 

“I’m here!” she shouted, running toward them as fast as she could go. Let them hear her, let them be here to help her… “Please! I’m here! Help me!” The engine (or engines, Prowl couldn’t tell) changed pitch and (she hoped!) turned toward her. She kept yelling. “I’m here! I’m here!”

Her calls trailed off in a terrified, bloodcurdling scream as her legs suddenly were wrapped in rope and tied together. She pitched forward to land face-first in the crystal strewn ground, the fall driving air from her vents and earning her several more small cuts and scratches. 

“No, nononono…” she sobbed as she pushed herself up and rolled over to yank frantically at the bolas wrapped around her legs. Her efforts were utterly futile and she looked up, terrified, at the warrior bearing down on her. Hands still free, she flung her final orb of entangling light at the islander and caught her, but Jazz only waited out the nanokliks until the sticky light dissolved into sparkles while Prowl pulled futilely at the bolas. Prowl was out of tricks, caught, and the warrior knew it.

“T’was a good chase,” Jazz said softly as she walked up and knelt next to her. Scared beyond wits, Prowl clawed at the islander’s armor with her blunt fingers, only for her wrists to be caught and held firmly. “Coo~rru… I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Not ever, but especially not fer this. Just gotta git ya back t’the kattumaram.”

“No. Please…” Prowl whispered back. She was  _ so _ close. She could still hear the engines, closer, bearing down on them. “No… NO!” she yelled in Praxan, hoping beyond hope that whoever was coming could get here before Jazz took her away. “I’m here! Help!”

Jazz ignored her resumed yelling to reach into her own satchel to retrieve a small box. She poured some of the powder inside into her hand and whispered several strange words that would have fascinated Prowl in  _ any _ other circumstance. Right now she was just trying to wiggle away.  _ “Iski relgr wux ekess vdri…” _ The powder changed color and Jazz blew it into Prowl’s face. “Sleep, beautiful.”

Prowl flinched, screamed, tried to get away, but her scream pulled the powder into her vents.

This time, she felt the spell take effect. Within nanokliks her struggles ceased, her body relaxed, her breathing eased, and her optics shut off of their own accord. A klik later, she was lost in dreams.

.

.

.

Arcee abandoned any pretense of staying with the others when she heard Prowl scream. The Praxan guards, as well as her two mechs, all drove on four wheels; she was a two-wheeler, able to handle better than they could through the dense forest. Only Drift’s two hounds matched her maneuverability and kept up.

She had been tense as coiled wire ready to spring since Ricochet had announced earlier that they were close. Smokescreen had started to ask how she could tell, but Arcee had only had one question for the barbarian:  _ which way.  _ As soon as she had a bearing, she and the guards had set off, leaving the other two behind. Let Smokescreen ask all the questions he wanted when it wasn’t wasting her time. There was no way the civilian was keeping up with them at full speed, and Ricochet had refused to do more than point them on their way.

When Prowl’s cries abruptly cut off, Arcee put on an extra burst of speed, outpacing even the hounds. That little barbarian wench might have caught her intended, but she wasn’t getting away with her!

Arcee flew over a low hedge-like formation of crystals just in time to see… actually, it took her a nanoklik to recognize the two femmes in front of her. The one standing with the other thrown over her shoulder was the same black and white she remembered Jazz being, though in a different pattern. The blue visor was the same, but those blue  _ lines  _ were new. And she wasn’t the only one covered in them. The unconscious femme in her arms had softly glowing blue tribal markings all over her dull, scratched-up paint job, even on her doorwings — doorwings that helped Arcee identify her through all the changes since she’d last seen her as  _ Prowl. _

“Unhand her!” she demanded as her tires  _ crunched!  _ down on the ground. “Release the Princess at once!”

The barbarian tilted her head at Arcee and the hounds as they burst into the clearing behind her, then simply took off running through the undergrowth.

Cursing, Arcee took off after her. Still in altmode she was able to accelerate fast and move quickly, but she didn’t have very many options besides ramming into her quarry. That could injure Prowl, either directly by hitting her or indirectly by causing the barbarian to drop her. It would be better if she could cut the other femme off and transform so she could use her hands — and weapons. 

Easier said than done. Even hindered as she was, the barbarian’s gait was long and smooth. She ducked and wove around the crystal trees, seeming only slightly slowed by the obstacles. Arcee was still faster, but Jazz dodged around crystals and continued to foil her attempts to cut the barbarian off.

The two hounds eventually flanked the islander, but before Arcee could take advantage of it, Jazz lashed out at the nearest turbohound with her own animal-like snarl. Claws scored across the creature’s nasal sensor. The hound faltered with a yelp and Jazz escaped the trap.

The forest ended almost abruptly, giving way to a bank of sand at the edge of the river. Jazz didn’t hesitate; she plunged into the river and swam very quickly across. Arcee, on the other hand, was forced to skid to a halt. She very nearly overbalanced, tires slipping on the sand, but managed to right herself and transform to stand more solidly facing the water. The hounds drew up short next to her, reluctant to rush forward into it without a direct command. Arcee was reluctant as well, but she couldn’t let the barbarian put any more distance between them. 

Ignoring the unpleasant cold, she started across the river, struggling against the current. “Come on!” she shouted to the hounds, then had to focus on keeping herself from sinking. How had Jazz managed it so fast, burdened as she was carrying Prowl? It was all Arcee could do to haul herself through the water, let alone anyone else!

By the time she reached the far shore, Jazz was already making good progress out to the open sea. Arcee ran up the riverbank, intending to transform and give chase, but the land didn’t dry out away from the river. It stayed soggy and swampy, each of her footsteps sucking against mud or splashing through puddles. There was no way she could drive on this. It wasn’t long before the two hounds had caught up to her, outpacing her even.

“Attack!” she barked at them, pointing ahead at where Jazz’s figure was shrinking in the distance. “Go! Take her down!” 

Both hounds leapt forward right away, one ahead of the other within nanokliks. Arcee struggled along behind them both, ignoring the stinging blades of the occasional clump of razorgrass as best she could. As long as none of it got under her armor to slice up any cables, it wasn’t significant damage.

The faster hound sprinted across the seemingly open ground. Slowed by the mud and puddles from the full speed Arcee knew it could reach, it still ran down the barbarian as they crested the first dunes. It leapt at her, sinking its fangs into one leg and Arcee heard the femme’s tire break with a loud  _ BANG! _

Jazz gave a strut-chilling howl and struck the dog across the face. It let go and circled, lunging again. Jazz dodged this one with a snarl and clawed the hound again, this time landing her blow across the shoulder.

The hound, following Arcee’s command to  _ attack, _ didn’t give up. It lunged again and Jazz almost lost her footing dodging. Matching the dog growl for growl, Jazz gently laid Prowl on the sand before falling on the dog with a savage howl.

The scuffle was short and vicious and gave Arcee the time she needed to catch up to the barbarian. “Guard!” she ordered the second dog, diverting it from Jazz to stand over Prowl and keep the barbarian from picking her back up. The first dog limped away covered in energon from the numerous lacerations on its plating — and some from its opponent as well. 

Arcee drew her sword. Without pause, she launched herself at Jazz, aiming to do even more significant damage. She needed to take her down decisively before going to Prowl herself, and had no compunction against doing anything necessary to achieve that end.

Jazz didn’t even seem to notice the lethal blade. She met Arcee’s lunge with one of her own. With a ferocious, feral howl, Jazz ignored the quick strike Arcee landed to rip and tear at the Iaconi princess’s blue plating.

There was a stark difference between how Jazz had reacted to her appearing in front of her in the forest to the way she was fighting now. Arcee had battled against trained warriors and soldiers before, but never against someone so completely fearless or impervious to their own pain. It was equal measures impressive and intimidating. Doing her best to block the rending claws, Arcee continued to thrust and slash at the agile barbarian. Energon dripped from the deep gashes she was leaving on Jazz’s shoulders, legs and arms, but they might as well have been sandflea bites for all the attention the femme spared them.

Crazed as she was, Jazz proved not incapable of tactical thought. Arcee cursed when a careless strike ended with her sword arm caught by one of Jazz’s hands with surprising strength for such a wiry, fast femme. The barbarian tried to claw her with the other hand, but Arcee caught  _ it. _ She pushed, hoping to shove Jazz backwards on the treacherous sand. Jazz was having none of that; with a snarl more suited to a mechanimal than a sentient femme, she lunged, sinking her fangs into the thin plating of Arcee’s wrist. With a cry of surprise and pain, Arcee dropped her sword. 

Disarmed, she couldn’t stop the barbarian from throwing her like a ragdoll.

Irrelevant now that she wasn’t standing between Jazz and Prowl, or Jazz and the sea, she was left there in a heap while the islander turned on the uninjured dog guarding Prowl. With a single devastating blow to the creature’s head, she knocked it aside. It fell to the sand, unconscious. 

“NO!” Arcee shouted, unthinkingly trying to push herself up with the hand Jazz had bitten. Her wrist buckled and she fell again, scrabbling to get back onto her feet. She had to stop her! She couldn’t let her take Prowl  _ again! _

With surprising gentleness completely at odds with the her savage expression, the barbarian picked up the unconscious Praxan and hoisted her up onto her shoulder. She turned back towards the sea and the boat anchored out in the bay.

Arcee fought her way back up from the sand, looking back and forth rapidly for where her sword had fallen. She glanced up at a bright spot of color in her peripheral vision and caught sight of her guards on the opposite side of the river; Hot Rod was in the lead, with Drift and one of the Praxan regulars close behind. Hot Rod stopped at the water’s edge while the other two barreled head-on into the river, but he wasn’t being idle. She saw him shout something, and though the exact words didn’t carry across the distance, the two glowing bolts of magical fire he loosed with a gesture had no trouble making their way, unerringly, to Jazz.

Jazz staggered with a cry of surprise. She looked back at the mage, a vicious snarl fixed on her face. Arcee saw the murderous glint in her visor. That femme would like nothing better than to kill them all right at this moment.

But she didn’t; she picked up her pace, carrying Prowl into the surf and away.

Arcee didn’t wait to see what else Hot Rod or the others were doing. Spotting her sword at last, she snatched it from the sand in her undamaged hand and took off after Jazz. There was no way to swim holding it, so she sheathed it as soon as she could and braced herself for the sting as she entered the water.

Rust burned in the open wound on her wrist, and several other places as well. She felt every clawmark on her arms and torso again as the water rose up over them, particularly the largest gash along her side just beneath her pectoral armor. The sea washed the energon leaking slowly from the torn lines beneath away, but didn’t stop the bleeding. 

Burdened by her injuries, swimming was much more difficult for Arcee now… but not impossible. Jazz had reached her catamaran already, hefting Prowl over the side and into the boat before clambering up onto the deck. Still, Arcee was making progress, and behind her she could just barely hear the others getting closer as well over the noise of the surf. 

She didn’t hear Hot Rod’s second spell, but two more missiles lanced out to strike Jazz as she hauled up the anchor. She staggered this time, and Arcee was elated to think they may have damaged Jazz enough to stop her, but no such luck. Jazz recovered and continued getting the boat ready to sail.

It took long, long kliks to swim out to the catamaran. How long would it take Jazz to set sail? They  _ had _ to get there in time. Arcee was  _ not _ letting her take Prowl!

But swimming in the sea, even calm as it currently was, was nothing like the peaceful practice laps Arcee had done every morning in the barracks pool and occasionally in the river in Iacon. Her wounds burned and cold slowed her terribly. She had to fight the waves and the wind and hidden undertows that tried to drag her beneath the waves. Disturbed birds created a cacophony that made it hard to hear anything but them and the surf. 

She reached the boat just as it started to drift. It lurched under her weight as she hauled herself onto the deck — or tried to. Jazz stood over her, effortlessly balancing on the slippery metal, with a harpoon. With a curse, she let go, taking shelter in the water right as the spear flew. Arcee expected the harpoon to veer off-target, bending from its intended arc like she knew arrows fired from a castle wall at the moat did, but the steelbone weapon flew true, stabbing her deep in the leg. Bubbles escaped her as she couldn’t help but scream.

She yanked the spear out of her plating, wincing as energon trickled from the wound into the water. Vaguely she saw Drift and Hot Rod swim past her, pulling themselves up onto the boat.

Hot Rod splashed back down into the water barely a nanoklik later, but the barbarian was still dealing with Drift, who’d managed to climb all the way up and pull out one of his swords. Arcee took advantage of Jazz’s distraction to haul herself onto the deck as well. 

Jazz caught Drift’s strike, but instead of biting him as she had Arcee, she kicked out at the larger warrior’s knee-joint. Drift’s leg buckled and, unable to keep his balance, the slick deck and the next lurching wave sent him skidding into the sea. Jazz turned her attention to Arcee, who was pulling her sword. 

“You will not take the Princess again,” Arcee hissed. 

Jazz hissed back, showing off her teeth. The crazed, savage look in her visor was back and before Arcee could do more than advance a single step, Jazz rushed her, body checking them both into the sea.

If fighting Jazz on land had been terrifying, fighting her in the water was an experience Arcee never wanted to repeat. She howled like a wild thing as she clawed and slashed effortlessly at all three of them. While the three Iaconi struggled to keep their heads above the surface and wield their weapons at the same time, Jazz  _ flew _ through the sea like a spirit, unreal and unbelievable in the silt-clouded water.

With a desperately shouted word, fire erupted from Hot Rod’s fingers, turning the water to a cloud of steam as the flames he conjured were immediately extinguished. The steam foiled the sword-strike he tried to follow up with, resulting in wild flailing with his weapon rather than the devastating strikes he could usually land with both sword and spell. Jazz let out a chuffing sound of wordless amusement as she ripped that sword from him and tore away the plating on his arm with it, making him scream. 

Meanwhile, the catamaran drifted away, carried swiftly out to sea on the tides.

“Prowl!”

There was no sign of life from the little boat. Whatever Jazz had done to knock Prowl out, she was well and truly unconscious. Arcee spun in the water, meaning to swim after her, but Jazz was there before she’d gone even an arm’s length. The water churned with the swiftness of her strikes, and Arcee could feel those claws gouging new holes in her leg as the barbarian dragged her through the water to attack her back and shoulders, aiming for vulnerable neck cables.

Somehow Arcee still managed to hold onto her sword, but it wasn’t doing her any good. Jazz was mostly behind her where she couldn’t land a hit with the blade, and bound up as they were, she couldn’t turn around. It was all she could do to keep her head above the water, and she worried Jazz would go for her throat like she had her wrist any nanoklik—

“Princess!” Suddenly Drift was beside her, barely able to swim himself with his disabled leg, but still determined to help. The punch he swung at Jazz missed completely, but it did draw her attention. Arcee gasped in relief and alarm as Jazz released her to rush Drift, knocking him back before setting in on his plating with her wicked claws. 

Arcee took the chance to swing at the islander with her sword, scoring only a glancing blow against her back. Jazz hissed and kicked Drift away from her, diving into the water. She quickly disappeared into the murk. There was no way to see where she would attack from next; Arcee tightened her grip on her sword and prepared to feel claws on her leg again, pulling her down to drown.

When she didn’t immediately get yanked under, she took a nanoklik to look around. Drift’s head was just barely bobbing above the waves, his face contorted in pain. Hot Rod was farther away, doing a better job staying above water, but not capable of more than that without his sword or any other offensive spells, even if his arm hadn’t been a mangled wreck. And the boat was floating farther and farther away, farther than Arcee had ever swum before. She felt her spark constrict in her chest. No one was going to be able to reach Prowl before the catamaran drifted completely out to sea. She would soon be lost to them all, left to wake helpless and alone, stranded on the open water.

With a splash, Jazz suddenly reappeared and hauled herself effortlessly to the deck, shaking the water from her plating in a shower of sparkling red droplets. She snarled back at the defeated Iaconi then let out a victorious howling roar that carried across the water like the great temple gongs. She let out another, just as loud as the first.

Then she turned her attention to the sail. It unfurled and filled, and the catamaran practically leapt out to sea.

Despite her injuries, Drift and Hot Rod were both injured worse and Arcee was the strongest swimmer. Sheathing her own weapon with some difficulty, she dove to the bottom of the bay to retrieve both their swords. Even knowing roughly where they’d fallen, it wasn’t an easy task. By the time she’d recovered Hot Rod’s blade, one of the Praxan guards had reached them in the water. He took it from her and went to help Drift while she dove back beneath the waves for his weapon.

They were a sorry bunch when they washed up on the shore a short while later, trying to keep the sand out of their wounds. The rest of the Praxan guards were arriving on the scene now, far too late to do anything more than assist in cleaning and patching up injuries.

“Go bring Smokescreen and Ricochet to join us,” she told one of them, knowing it would be faster than rejoining them in the forest. She needed everyone together to regroup and plan their next move, and she had more than a few questions for their Polyhexian guide after that battle.

The hole left in her leg by Jazz’s harpoon made walking even more painful than swimming, but Arcee insisted on checking on her guards before allowing herself to rest. Hot Rod had fewer injuries compared to Drift, but his arm was in bad shape. Drift’s knee wasn’t looking much better, twisted and dislocated as it was, but he also had a collection of cuts from Jazz’s claws to match those his turbohound was sporting. The dog Jazz had knocked unconscious was awake again, licking the other’s wounds while one of the Praxans treated Drift’s.

Another Praxan approached her a moment later. “Princess, please,” he said gently. “We need to stop your bleeding before you lose any more energon.”

“Fine,” she gritted out.

The Praxan waggled his doorwings as he washed with medicinal oil and bandaged the largest wounds, first with a soft, almost paste-like metal mesh meant to incorporate into plating and armor as it healed, then with the water- and energon-proof rubbery mesh that would keep the wounds clean while they healed. He didn’t ask her to sit in the sand, which would have only have introduced more rust into the wound.

Ricochet and Smokescreen arrived as the Praxan soldiers were bandaging the last of their major wounds. Smokescreen looked aghast, but the islander surveyed the scene with the optics— optic band of someone familiar with this sort of carnage. She looked  _ proud _ to see the damage her twin had inflicted.

“You were expecting this, weren’t you?” Arcee glared at the barbarian, hissing as yet another mesh patch was pressed into the hole in her leg. “You knew.” Knew that Jazz was capable of terrifying feats of strength and speed, particularly in water. Angry as she was, Arcee didn’t yell at their guide this time though. She could hardly accuse Ricochet of having led them into an ambush against a single opponent, and it was impossible not to wonder now: if Jazz had been able to do this much damage while focused on escaping with her hostage, how much damage could her twin do without that handicap?

Arcee ignored the babble of Smokescreen translating to keep her optics locked on Ricochet’s optic band. Ricochet answered in the same, staccato tongue.

“She says,” Smokescreen said, when the islander finished speaking, “that Jazz called on the spirit of the fierce water-cat to possess her. The cat spirit gives her speed and strength beyond her own, but superimposes its feral desires in exchange. She’s impressed Jazz kept enough of her own thoughts intact to focus on escaping with her,” Smokescreen’s words stumbled as he reworded slightly, “the princess.”

Some form of magic then, Arcee figured. Whether she believed it was literally the spirit of a water-cat (whatever  _ that  _ was) or not, the effect had been undeniable, and wasn’t wholly unfamiliar. There were plenty of spells that could augment a fighter’s abilities; Hot Rod specialized in them alongside his flashier fire-throwing spells, and Arcee had fought with their power in the past. She’d never felt one affect her thinking before, but she was willing to admit there was more magic in the world than she knew.

Even Prowl didn’t know all there was to know about magic, and she studied the subject extensively.

“I find myself wishing you had mentioned she was capable of… calling the water-cat before,” Arcee grumbled, taking up a clean cloth to wipe at the rust-streaked energon dripping down her side from the gash in her chest while the Praxan finished with her leg. “Are there any more supernatural abilities we should know about now?”

Before translating, Smokescreen gave the Iaconi a shrewd look. “Begging your Highness’ pardon, but I find it difficult to believe that the ship-guards who live in Hightower and ship out with any vessel that dares sail the Rust Sea during the off-trade season haven’t bragged to you about the dangers they face, and the quality of the Polyhexian warriors who attack them.”

They had, Arcee had to concede, but she hadn’t given the stories she’d heard much credence. She had assumed the stories were exaggerated to sound more impressive to her as a foreign dignitary, rather than being factual accounts. Clearly, that was not the case. “I’d still appreciate knowing what  _ this  _ Polyhexian warrior in particular is capable of,” she told Smokescreen. “General stories are only so helpful.”

Smokescreen went ahead and translated the question. Ricochet shrugged, giving a short (too short) answer. Smokescreen huffed, and repeated it in a different way and got a similar response.

“She doesn’t understand the question,” the merchant told Arcee. “She thinks everything they do is magic and doesn’t understand the distinction you’re making. And she doesn’t believe Jazz is doing anything unusual. She and Jazz are warriors. The leaders of war bands, yes, but not shamans, and as such aren’t doing anything any other warrior cannot. She says Jazz can’t get lost, but I don’t think that’s what you’re looking for where specific information is concerned.” Ricochet said something else. “And she wants to know why we aren’t going after Jazz yet.”

“We will be,” Arcee promised fiercely, “just as soon as we’re capable.” Which, in her case, would be in a couple of kliks. “I’m not going to risk anyone’s health with open wounds.” And there were an awful lot of those to contend with. Drift’s knee was back in place, but he still had several lacerations that needed to be filled and patched, and the repair to Hot Rod’s arm was taking a while to complete due to the severity of the injury. She narrowed her optics, wondering if something else she didn’t know had prompted the question. “Why?”

“Because now Jazz will be running,” Smokescreen translated Ricochet’s smirk. 

“What do you mean,  _ now?”  _ Wasn’t that what she’d  _ been  _ doing?

That discussion took several exchanges, with Ricochet and Smokescreen bickering back and forth several times. One cutting remark had the merchant’s EM field blushing madly. “Apparently,” Smokescreen’s voice was rueful as he translated, “up until now, Jazz has been stopping to sleep, gather food, and seduce her captive. Having seen us, now she will sail as fast as she can without stopping for any reason, until she runs out of food stored on the boat or needs to recharge.”

_ Seduce?  _ Arcee’s processor stalled on the word. Smokescreen’s EM fluctuations were hint enough that Ricochet’s explanation had been more graphic than his translation, and Arcee felt her own field flare angrily in response at the confirmation of her fears. Poor Prowl, having to deal with that on top of everything else she was being put through! Her voice had been so full of fear and desperation in the forest and Arcee had failed to rescue her… 

Hands curled into fists at her sides, determination pushing aside all other emotions. She had failed once; she would not fail again. “Then we’ll just have to find a way to overtake her,” Arcee declared. “How long will she be able to keep it up?” She’d run out of fuel eventually, and no one could go on short sleep forever. “How far can she travel per cycle like that?”

That merited another lengthy discussion. Arcee waited as patiently as possible while the last wounds were seen to. Finally, “As far as Ricochet knows, she has at least three cycles worth of fuel stored on the catamaran, and the longest she’s ever observed Jazz going without recharge is seven cycles. As for how far she can go…” Smokescreen shrugged. “Polyhexian units of distance don’t translate to Praxan very well, your Highness. And she may change direction, several times even, to elude pursuers.”

“Sounds like it may be time to split up further then,” the nearest Praxan guard spoke up. “If I might make a suggestion…?” At Arcee’s nod, he drew a crude diagram in the sand, illustrating the coastline in both directions. “The land bells out into the sea a little ways past the river here,” he continued, adding a line to show the path a boat would have to take around it — and one for the shorter path a land party could cut across it.

Arcee caught on immediately. “Perfect. If she continues away from the city, my mechs and I will be positioned to meet her when she comes around that final curve. Teams will break off along the way in case she changes direction before going that far, and at least one party will head back towards Hightower to cover that direction.” She gave everyone a hard look as they all gathered around. “Jazz has proven to be a fierce opponent. Be prepared for battle and avoid the water as much as possible should the opportunity to rescue the princess present itself.”

Ricochet looked at the diagram keenly, then groaned. She said something to Smokescreen that produced another blush across his EM field.

“Is there a problem?”

“No, your Highness,” Smokescreen said stiffly. “She’s just complaining about more driving.”

“Really?” Embarrassment was an odd reaction to a complaint. “I certainly hope you aren’t leaving things out of your translations.”

Smokescreen gritted his teeth and glared at Arcee. With the utmost politeness he elaborated: “She suggested several activities she believes would be more  _ productive _ than futilely chasing after a  _ catamaran _ on our own four wheels. She was  _ quite detailed. _ She would  _ start _ by biting my chevron until I screamed in ecstas—”

“I’ve heard enough,” Arcee cut him off abruptly, sorry she’d asked. Perhaps she shouldn’t have expected anything less crude from the barbarian, but she really didn’t need the reminder of what Jazz might be doing to Prowl. “Feel free to continue interpreting the intent of her words rather than providing a literal translation in the future.”

“As you wish, your Highness,” Smokescreen bit out. “You’re too kind.”

“No, what I am is injured and frustrated.” Arcee drew in a deep vent, then let it out with a sigh. “Neither of which excuses temper.” Especially when sharing her bad mood over what felt like a very personal failure would only make things more difficult. As it was, they were going to be plenty difficult already, even with a relatively straightforward plan. “Let’s just focus on how to go about moving on from here. Ricochet, you said Jazz has — probably has — three cycles worth of fuel stored on the catamaran. How are you measuring that? From when she left Hightower, or right now? And is that fuel for just her, or both of them?” They only had supplies for six more cycles themselves, which meant if Jazz was going to run for at least three more, they wouldn’t have enough to get back… but neither would Jazz. “What happens when she runs out?”

Ricochet’s field was decidedly smug as she replied to Smokescreen’s words. “Three cycles starting now,” Smokescreen said, “unless she has been very unlucky in her food-finding. And if she’s been very lucky it could be much more. When she runs out, she will stop to food-find. If she hasn’t seen us, she will resume her pattern of sailing, sleeping, food-finding, and courting.” Ricochet said something very vehemently and Smokescreen dutifully repeated it. “Jazz will make sure Prowl’s fed, to her own detriment if necessary.” The barbarian said something else, which Smokescreen did not choose to translate. This time, Arcee didn’t press the issue.

“We’re not going to be able to follow that long,” Drift said, holding back his dogs from treading on the makeshift map. “Not without running out of rations. I’d suggest sending some guards back and redistributing their remaining supplies, but we’re going to need everyone to cover this much area effectively.”

“Can we supplement our rations the same way Jazz is doing?” Arcee asked, looking between Smokescreen and Ricochet. “What does this food-finding entail?”

Smokescreen didn’t translate that; he simply answered it, looking apprehensive as he did so. “Polyhexians drink fuel from mechanimals they kill, your Highness.”

Arcee had no immediate response to that. She was too stunned, as were most of the others, judging by their expressions. Drift, however, wasn’t as bothered by the revelation. “The hounds do the same, Princess, and it does them no harm to fuel that way.”

“But they’re  _ tiny,”  _ Hot Rod protested. “How are tiny mechanimals supposed to sustain a full sized mech?”

“More stupid!” Ricochet laughed when Smokescreen translated the question. She gestured to the still-disturbed birds. “Not small.” Then to the forest. “Not small.” Then to the sea. “Very not small. Big. Eat tiny mech like you.” She grinned toothily, showing off her (very sharp, Arcee was reminded) teeth. She cackled and said something else in her own language to Smokescreen.

He didn’t translate. “I still have a full kilocycle’s rations in my pack,” he said instead, glaring at Ricochet, who smirked back. She licked three taloned fingers and reached out to flick Smokescreen’s chest, fluttering her fingers against his chest seam. He just kept talking. “She’s been sharing the fuel she finds with me, so I can contribute that much to our rations.” Ricochet pouted at being ignored and said something scathing. “Which, she reminds me, she is only doing because she likes me enough to keep me from starving. She’s not obligated to help you do the same.”

“No,” Arcee agreed, “she isn’t. Though if both you and she would be willing to distribute your rations and continue to fuel yourselves that way, it would help.” She grit her teeth and took another deep breath before continuing. “And I would appreciate it if she would be willing to show us how to do this food-finding ourselves, should it become necessary.”

“The dogs can help us hunt,” Drift promised while Smokescreen repeated Arcee’s words in Polyhexian to Ricochet. “I can have them bring down prey for us to share, not just for themselves.”

“She won’t share hers with us,” Smokescreen translated with a sigh. “She’s only carrying three cycles for herself, and she’ll need all of it to keep driving during this part of the chase.”

That was unfortunate, but there was nothing Arcee could do about it. “Alright then, we’ll redistribute yours, barring what you’ll need for the chase, and send someone back to Hightower to let the Lord know our status and come reprovision the teams.” That would take the burden off everyone of conserving rations for the drive home, particularly if they distributed the rations amongst the Praxans, who didn’t have any other means of fueling themselves. 

She wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of drinking energon directly from the lines of another living — even if it was no longer living at the time — being. Iaconi religion held that all life was sacred. The purification she would need to go through after this was all over to atone would be extensive. But, having failed to rescue her intended today, the only way to continue with any chance of success would be at the expense of the forest’s inhabitants.

_ May Primus forgive me. _

“Is she willing to instruct us if the dogs are not able to support all three of us?” she asked, giving Hot Rod a sharp look when he seemed ready to protest. They would have to undergo purification as well. Drift patted his unbandaged arm reassuringly, and Arcee was grateful for the mech’s willingness to work with the necessities of their situation.

When Smokescreen translated the request, Ricochet let out a chilling, smug laugh.

_ That _ needed no translation. “Alright, we’ll manage.” Somehow, they would manage. “Hot Rod, you and Speedtrap,” she motioned to their Praxan map artist, “figure out who should be on each team, which teams need to break off where, and who’s going back to Hightower. Drift, work with them to distribute the rations so everyone has what they’ll need until additional provisions arrive. Make sure everyone has flares in two colors: one to signal your location for assistance, and one to announce that you’ve successfully recovered the princess.” 

“And…” Smokescreen drawled when Arcee didn’t give either him or Ricochet an order, “what about us?”

“We,” Arcee replied, pulling several sheets of flimsy from her pack, “are going to create a list of whatever she can think of that might help them spot Jazz if she turns around, since Ricochet won’t be with them.” She handed the sheets and a silverstick to the merchant. “And you are going to make a copy for each of them.”

.

.

.

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

Warm and dry, at first Prowl thought that she’d been rescued. Then she came far enough up out of her dreams to recognize the rocking of the catamaran in motion, the stiffness of her limbs being tied.

This time her legs as well as her hands were bound, and there was a thin, comfortable gag in her mouth. “Nmmmh,” she whined against it, trying to resist the urge to cry. She’d been so _close!_ She’d thrown everything she had at Jazz and it hadn’t been enough, and now she was down to almost no magic at all. A couple of cantrips and a single casting of her Unseen Servant were the only spells she had left outside the Binding Orbs and her bonded ring, which thank Primus was still on her finger. She didn’t even need to look to know her satchel was once more outside her reach, which was fortunate, since she couldn’t have moved if she tried at the moment. This was so much worse than just having her wrists tied!

Jazz appeared almost immediately, cooing as she reached for her chevron. Prowl flinched, the memory of the warrior’s face contorted with the fierce glee of the chase burned into her processor. “Nngh! Gwwy!”

“Coo~rru, coo~rru…” Jazz said comfortingly. “Ain’t gonna hurt ya. Was a good chase! Yer perfect!” She threw herself down to lay on the deck and reached down with one arm to wrap Prowl in a sort of hug. Prowl just curled away as much as her bonds would allow and shivered. She wasn’t supposed to be here! She was supposed to be home! Home, with Arcee, continuing their tour of Hightower. Not still out to sea with a frightening, delusional Polyhexian convinced she was her mate!

Jazz cooed worriedly. “Don’ make any magic,” she warned, “an’ I’ll take this off.” She reached for the gag. Prowl nodded her agreement immediately. What could she cast that would help her now anyway? Gently the gag was pulled out of her mouth and away. Prowl saw Jazz tuck it into her belt, within easy reach. “Okay now?”

“Yer not gonna hurt me?” It was the first thought Prowl could actually put words to, though it was far from the only thing wrong. “I promise, no magic, please don’t be mad like that again.”

“Ain’t mad. Not fer _that!_ Y’were _fantastic!”_ Jazz hugged her again. “Ain’t _ever_ gonna hurt ya.”

“But, yer face, before _…”_ Prowl fumbled with the language. Angry wasn’t really the right word, but she didn’t know the one she wanted in Polyhexian and there weren’t any in the trade argot to describe the way Jazz had looked. “I felt same as nijan. Same as remis.”

Jazz’s face furrowed as she puzzled that out. “Yer _not_ prey!” she finally said, insistently. “Th’fishing cat spirit might see anythin’ that runs as prey, but yer _not._ Yer my _mate.”_

No, she _wasn’t!_ But there was more than a language barrier separating them on that particular point, and Prowl didn’t know how to go about bridging the gap between their cultures. It was comforting to hear Jazz say she wasn’t prey _(there_ was the word she’d been looking for!) at least, and her trembling subsided somewhat. “Still feel like prey,” she said quietly.

Jazz got up, made some minute adjustment to the sail, then came back to sit beside Prowl again.

“S’the magic,” she said quietly when Prowl had almost given up on her saying anything at all. “We each have a spirit guide, a creature’a th’wind or waves that protects and guides us. Th’spirits don’t give th’same protection and guidance ta each’a’us though. Some, their guide whispers spells t’them. Others see it guidin’ their steps every sun mark from one sunrise t’the next, their whole lives. Some it possesses, grantin’ us its speed and strength and senses, but also its thoughts and feelings. That’s what y’saw.”

…Magic? That had been magic? Looking back now without the immediacy of the chase crowding out any other thoughts, Prowl did remember that Jazz hadn’t looked like a ferocious predator the entire time — just in the beginning, before the river. Curiosity began slowly displacing her fear, even if it couldn’t touch her homesickness. “Th’fishing cat spirit, that’s yer guide?”

“Yeah. Rico’s too.” Jazz smiled crookedly. “Hungry?”

Prowl blinked, the abrupt change of subject confusing her for a moment. “What’s a fishing cat?” she asked, instead of answering Jazz’s question. “Why a fishing cat, not something else?”

“Fishing cats’re like ship cats—” that was the Polyhexian name for domestic cybercats, Prowl knew “—only bigger.” Jazz didn’t seem bothered that Prowl had ignored her question. “Got stripes here,” she brushed her fingers over Prowl’s head, from her nose, between her chevron points and over her helm, “and spots on th’rest’a their plating. Big paws, with webbin’ fer swimming, and very sharp teeth,” Jazz grinned, showing off _her_ teeth. “Stealthy, fast, fierce, and very good swimmers. Dunno why that’s me. Kindred sparks, maybe, but she came t’me and Rico, and th’spirit’s been with us ever since.”

Fascinated in spite of herself, Prowl kept asking questions. “How d’ya call it? Does it always answer th’same way? Why,” she hesitated, then kept going, “why’d ya call it t’chase me?”

“S’always there, under m’plating,” Jazz said, laying down again to rest her arm over Prowl in that not-quite-a-hug again. “We were told when she came t’us fer th’first time that now we _were_ fishing cats; can’t be nothin’ else. Maybe someday she’ll surface some other way, but so far s’just th’rage. And I weren’t gonna catch ya any other way. It was a good chase. Yer a good mate.”

She couldn’t actually be _happy_ Prowl had tried to escape, could she? But that seemed to be the case. Gratifying as it was to know she’d been up against a form of magic she didn’t understand, that she hadn’t been all too easy to catch, the fact was she’d wanted to succeed. She’d been crushed to wake up on the boat again, yet Jazz was acting like she should be pleased to be here!

“Not want a good chase,” she said, worried that somehow, despite her promise, Jazz would become upset. “Was tryin’ ta go home.” The ropes made it impossible to pound the hull with her hands or feet with her mounting frustration; the growl of her engine didn’t feel like enough. “I don’t understand!”

Jazz tilted her head, looking curiously at Prowl. “Course if y’d escaped y’would’ve gone back t’yer clan. Wouldn’t be worthy’a ya if I couldn’t catch ya. Yer so very, very clever, Prowl, beautiful… y’shouldn’t accept any suitor who ain’t strong and clever as y’are. But I _did_ catch ya. I _am_ worthy! I’m a good mate!”

“That’s—” What? Flattering? Interesting? Irrelevant? “—not how Praxans find mates.”

The sail made a snapping sound and Jazz cursed as she darted back to attend it.

“We’re pretty far out,” Jazz said consideringly when she came back. “I’ll untie yer legs if y’want t’come out on deck. S’cold an’ wet, but easier t’talk. Y’can tell me how Praxans find their mates! ‘Cause I’m a good one!”

“Yes please.” She’d deal with cold if it meant fewer ropes and more answers.

The cold _was_ shocking as Jazz flipped the blanket off her to get at the ropes around her legs. The sun was sinking on the horizon, and the breeze was crisp. Once again Jazz coiled the rope up and kept it in reach, this time slinging it over her torso. Getting out of the hull and onto the deck was much harder when the boat was moving, but Prowl was more used to the motion now. _And_ more confident Jazz wouldn’t let her fall overboard as the other femme helped her climb out. She was guided by Jazz’s strong grip to sit in front of the mast, where immediately she was hit by a cresting wave. She sputtered and when she managed to wipe the water from her optics, she realized Jazz was tying the ropes around her again, this time into a harness around her torso, caressing her as she did so.

Prowl thought she was going to tie her to the mast, and she did — sort of. When Jazz finished the harness she was working on, she attached _that_ to the mast by a short lead rope, with enough slack for Prowl to move around a little bit on the deck. With the way the waves kept splashing up every so often, Prowl was glad of this rope, feeling more secure because of it rather than restrained.

“Thank you,” she said when Jazz sat down again beside her.

“Hungry?”

Was she? She’d been too distraught when she first woke up to feel anything as basic as hunger, but now that she actually thought about it, she really was. How long had she been asleep? They were headed vaguely away from the coast, which was (unsurprisingly) unfamiliar when she turned to look, as well as being even farther away than she’d pictured when Jazz said they were far out. The pull of something other than the rope harness on her plating distracted her from panicking too much over it though. Looking down at her limbs, Prowl saw they were crisscrossed with strips of some strange material.

“What’re these?”

Jazz said the word in Polyhexian — kill-weed cover? — then, seeing Prowl’s incomprehension, tried to explain in the trade argot. “Hurt covers. No… bad stuff in hurts.”

“So, bandages,” Prowl guessed in Praxan, taking stock of her frame again. There were more of the strips on her legs than her arms, several in places where she knew she’d cut herself running through the forest. They didn’t look anything like the bandages she was used to; would they be enough to keep the rust out when there was so much of it in the air and water? “They work good?”

“Of course!” Jazz seemed almost offended. “Wouldn’t hurt ya. Ain’t gonna let ya get sick.” She looked around. “We’ll talk more soon, kay? I gotta tack, then git ya some fuel. You have’ta be hungry Prowl; y’haven’t eaten since before this sun mark, last sunrise.”

Prowl watched her as she got up. She couldn’t hope to understand what she was doing with the rudder and the sail, but the result was that they turned so that they were headed vaguely towards the shore now. Jazz moved more stiffly than Prowl remembered, and it took her a moment to notice all the bandages Jazz was wearing. She berated herself for being so unobservant: Jazz was almost covered in places by them. Her right leg was wrapped in them from the knee to her ankle, and there was a sickening depression where her tire should have been. She had many, many smaller bandages like Prowl’s where she must have gotten scratched running through the forest after her, but there were also huge patches on her back, side and arm that must cover much more serious injuries.

Which meant that had been the rescue party she’d heard just before Jazz put her to sleep, and Jazz had fought them. And won. “What happened?” she asked, cold fear starting to grip her again. Jazz hadn’t… hadn’t killed anyone, had she?

“Hmmm?” Jazz answered, distracted with tying down the sail so it would stay facing its new, slightly different direction.

“Yer hurt. What happened?” Prowl leaned forward anxiously. “Who’d ya fight?”

“Yer clan tried t’take ya back. Yer other suitor — Arcee? Not good mate fer Prowl, but s’a okay fighter, an’ she brought a hound-master an’ a priest-mage with ‘er. Good fight. Won. Ain’t a match fer th’fishing cat spirit!” She dug around the cargo piled in the hull and retrieved a large ovoid, then retrieved one of the two kelapa shells full of candy balls from under the blanket. “Gotta eat. Been a long time since ya last fueled.”

Prowl’s tank could definitely use the fuel Jazz was offering, but she needed to know— “Arcee’s still alive? Th’others too?” Drift was easy to identify by Jazz’s description, and while Hot Rod was no priest, he was a mage. Prowl didn’t know either of them well, but they were good mechs.

“Alive,” Jazz said, unwrapping the ovoid from layers of the same material she’d used for bandages, then twisting the smooth container open in the middle to reveal a dull blue ovoid of the same shape inside. She cut into it with her claws, tearing off a small chunk. “Last I saw ‘em they were alive, anyway. If they didn’t git outta th’water pretty quick they were gonna be sharkticon food. Had a pack’a ‘em followin’ m’own fuel trails ‘til I got bandaged up.”

This time when Prowl opened her mouth to ask another question about Arcee and the others, Jazz took the opportunity to stuff the dull blue morsel of fuel in her mouth.

It tasted… _sour._ Not to the point of unpleasantness, but the flavor was very strong. It had a texture somewhere between the kelapa balls and acrylic, and Prowl suspected it was another form of preserving energon by mixing it with some other powdered crystal or minerals. Unable to talk until she either spat it out — which she was too hungry to do — or finished it, Prowl chewed as quickly as she could.

“Y’said my clan came fer me,” she said as soon as she’d swallowed. “Who else besides Arcee? How many? What’re sharkticons?” Whatever they were, if they were only a danger in the water then Arcee was probably alright as long as there had been others there to pull her and her guards from the sea. It must have been an incredibly close battle, if it had come all the way out to the boat. She really had come so close…

Jazz held out another sliver of the hardened energon and just looked at Prowl with amusement. Fine; if eating would get Jazz to answer her… Prowl raised her bound hands to take the second piece. Jazz pulled it away slightly, evading Prowl’s hands, then offered it again, this time by resting it against Prowl’s lips.

Really? “I can fee—” _d myself,_ she tried to say, but Jazz popped the fuel past her lips before she could finish. Prowl huffed, but she waited for Jazz to pull her fingers back before dutifully starting to chew it. She gave Jazz a pointed look as she did so, demanding answers with her optics.

“Saw at least five. Boat-guards from Praxus.” Jazz sliced off another sliver of energon, ready to feed her when Prowl was done chewing this one. “Sharkticons’re… big water predators, with really, really good teeth. They smell fuel in th’water and come fer the injured‘n dying. Sharkticon god protects th’islands, sinkin’ mainland boats when they git too close’n feeds th’invaders t’his kin.”

That sounded rather gruesome. Prowl shivered at the thought of being torn apart by something huge with dozens of sharp teeth and eaten. She was very glad to hear there had been others in the rescue party to make sure her intended didn’t fall prey to such a creature. She swallowed hard, remembering what Jazz had said about them following the boat.

“There ain’t any out there right now, are there? Y’ain’t bleedin’ now, right?” Prowl looked out over the water. The gentle swells suddenly looked like they were hiding shadows that had nothing to do with the setting sun.

Jazz put the hardened fuel to Prowl’s lips and waited. With another resigned huff, Prowl opened her mouth and let Jazz feed her.

“Dunno,” Jazz shrugged while Prowl chewed on the tough morsel. “Probably. But I ain’t bleeding and Carcharhinidae usually ain’t gonna attack a kattumaram. Could dive down, maybe find ya a small one t’look at once we’ve anchored again.”

Prowl squeaked around the hard piece of fuel in her mouth. “I’in’t tha’ dangerouth?” she asked, then flushed with embarrassment for talking with her mouth full. She brought her hands up to cover her face, but there was nothing she could do about her EM field. It only seemed to amuse Jazz, fortunately, not offend her.

“Ain’t,” the warrior answered the question. “Carcharhinidae’s one’a th’good ones. Just gotta make sure we don’ hurt ‘is kin.” She paused while she sliced off another bit of fuel to have ready for Prowl when she finished her current bite. “Unless we eat it,” Jazz said thoughtfully. “‘E’s fairly understanding ‘bout eating things.”

How would eating it not count as hurting it? Prowl blinked over the top of her hands, not sure how to even begin responding to that. It made no sense! And yet, it also made perfect sense. Why wouldn’t a god whose creatures ravenously devoured things in the sea understand his kin falling prey to other hunters? Hunters like Jazz, though the idea of the warrior catching a sea monster so she could look at it was a little absurd.

Jazz reached out and gently lowered Prowl’s bound hands from where they were covering her face. “Don’ do that. Yer too pretty t’hide. I wanna see ya, in all yer moods.” With a smile, she offered the next piece of fuel.

Pretty? Prowl didn’t feel very pretty, covered in bandages over paint more scratched and dull than she’d ever worn in her life. “Ain’t pretty,” she protested, though this time she didn’t protest the fuel Jazz pressed past her lips.

Jazz squawked like one of the sea birds Prowl could still hear flying around nearby, following the boat, offended. “Ain’t true! Who said that? Was it Arcee?” She growled. Prowl shook her head quickly, not wanting her to get the wrong idea but also not able to talk again while she chewed.

She considered as she worked on finishing her mouthful what to say. Easiest would be to simply explain what had prompted her denial in the first place, that she felt she wasn’t fit to be seen in public. But Jazz’s accusation made her think, and she realized she couldn’t once remember Arcee telling her she was pretty. Not even when they had first been introduced in person, shortly after their engagement was set. She hadn’t called her ugly or anything like that, but she hadn’t called her beautiful.

Then again, Prowl hadn’t told Arcee she was beautiful either. Not because she wasn’t, but because Arcee had simply lived up to her expectations when Prowl finally saw her, not exceeded them. Slender, Iaconi build with noble quality blue paint and finish and elegant kibble; Arcee was pretty much exactly what she had imagined, and she was probably just what Arcee had expected in return. Nothing had stood out as worth remarking on, so they’d moved on to other things. It hadn’t bothered her at all at the time, but now Prowl wondered. Did Arcee think she was pretty?

Jazz gave her the moment to think, then leaned forward to look directly into Prowl’s optics. “I,” she said seriously, “have sailed from one side’a th’Rust Sea t‘th’other and visited every one’a our islands. I’ve seen gods and monsters, both so divinely and monstrously beautiful I couldn’t even look at ‘em without being blinded. So believe me when I say it: there ain’t a single creature of wind, waves, land, or sky as beautiful as y’are.”

Prowl could see the surprised flare of light from her own optics on Jazz’s face. That was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her. She’d heard over the top declarations and flattery with flowery phrasing before, yes, but the way Jazz said it… Prowl might doubt the truth of such a fantastic statement, but she couldn’t ignore that Jazz said it like she believed every single word.

“But I look awful,” she said, not feeling worthy of such praise. “My, my,” her vocabulary failed again, leaving her pointing at her legs with her bound hands, “all scratches ‘n weeds.”

“Sure,” Jazz shrugged carelessly, pressing another mouthful of fuel past Prowl’s lips. “Y’are. Don’t change anything.”

Did she mean she thought Prowl was beautiful inside? That she thought she was beautiful for who she was, not what she looked like? Melancholy seeped back into her field. Jazz didn’t know what she was like. How could she? They’d spent all of a few cycles together on a boat. After nearly three kilocycles with Arcee, Prowl still barely knew her intended.

Uncomfortable with that line of thought, Prowl chewed and swallowed and changed the subject. “Whaddaya call this? What is it?” she managed to ask before the next piece was placed in her mouth. She started chewing it. It was annoying to be treated like she couldn’t do it for herself, but it seemed to amuse Jazz. And she did need the fuel.

 _“Tiere,”_ Jazz said the word, allowing the change in topic. “S’fuel from’a big critter. This one’s from’a island boar. Then y’take the underground resevoir’a fuel and minerals from a _reka_ crystal, mix ‘em with th’fuel and pour it inta th’developement chambers of a _keri,”_ she tapped the container the hard gelled energon was stored in, “t’shape and store.”

She pressed two of the kelapa balls into Prowl’s hands and put the shell full of them away under the blanket, then went to fuss with the sail and rudder. She sang softly to them while she worked. The boat lurched again, spraying everything on deck — including both Prowl and the tiere, which must not be as fragile as the not yet matured candy Prowl was currently nibbling on — with water as she turned the boat once again vaguely away from shore. What was Jazz doing? Were they travelling on a zig-zag path through the water? It was hard to tell, precisely, given how dark it was becoming; dark enough the stars were slowly spreading out above them.

“Y’ _are_ beautiful,” Jazz insisted the instant she sat down next to Prowl again, cuddling up to Prowl’s side and digging into the tiere for herself. “Mine. _My mate._ How could I think y’were anything but gorgeous? Yer wounds’ll heal, yer paint’ll change. Can — _will!_ — even buff it up fer ya, next time we stop. But yer spark is forever. Y’shine so brightly, I got no doubt ya’ll be one’a th’stars that’ll guide ships and sailors across th’sea until th’end’a time.” She let that sit for a moment, then said, “So y’were gonna tell me how Praxans courted, yeah?”

Prowl nodded, grateful not to dwell on that new romantic revelation. It seemed so easy for Jazz to say things like that, naturally as breathing, while Prowl struggled even hearing them. “Praxans court by spendin’ time together outside’a things-they-have-ta-do,” she talked around not having words for responsibilities or duties, “gettin’ t’know each other. Talkin’. Takin’ fuel. Giving things.” She finished the first of the two kelapa candies, thinking about the way she and Arcee were following those steps. Technically they were doing the first two, but gifts weren’t really something they did. There was no need. They weren’t courting to entice the other to bond, they were already engaged; the only thing left for them to do was learn how to live with one another.

Not very romantic, Prowl couldn’t help thinking.

Jazz laughed. “Good! Thought fer a moment it’d be _hard_ t’do any Praxan courting things.”

“What? No!” Praxan courting and this — this _kidnapping_ were completely different! “Praxans don’t spend _all_ the time together. Live separate, things-have-to-do every cycle. Can’t stop for courting.”

The islander scoffed. “Like a villager. Y’don’t want a villager fer a mate anyway.”

“I _am_ a villager!” Sort of. Prowl wasn’t entirely sure what being a Polyhexian villager entailed, but it almost had to be closer to her own city life than constantly sailing! “I live in one place, only travel sometimes. Arcee too. S’why we’re soon-mates, cause we live the same way.” Only they didn’t really, did they? Just because they both lived in cities didn’t mean their lifestyles were even remotely similar. The schedules they kept, the activities they liked, the duties they had, all of them were different to the point it made spending time together difficult.

“Sure, yer a villager. Were. But y’don’t _want_ t’be,” Jazz said with absolute surety. “Y’want t’be an explorer, a warrior. Y’don’t want a villager mate.” She tilted her head curiously. “And why d’ya say ‘soon-mates’? Either y’are, or aren’t. Spark-calling ain’t somethin’ that changes with time.”

Prowl had been about to protest that what she wanted wasn’t relevant to her arrangement with Arcee. What she wanted wasn’t something Jazz could know about her anyway — the fact that the islander had guessed right was completely irrelevant. It was wishful thinking on Jazz’s part, not a conclusion drawn from getting to know Prowl. But that last question drew her up short. Had she misunderstood the word for mate? Or was the idea of a mate just fundamentally different to Polyhexians? “Spark-calling?” she repeated, wanting to be sure what that meant before tackling the larger issue. “Whaddaya mean, spark-calling?”

“Precursor to permanent link,” Jazz said the same word she’d been using all this time for Prowl. This time, instead of defaulting to the translation of “mate” that Jazz had offered when they’d first discussed it, Prowl listened to the word again. It _was_ the word for things that were linked, permanently, irrevocably and for all time. The moon and the tides. The wind and the waves. Things that were so linked they could potentially be described with a single word. Bonded? Two sparks linked? But _this_ word was modified to describe a state of not yet being so linked. Precursor. Something that, in the books she’d been trying to teach herself the language from, could not actually be applied to the sort of links that word described.

So… could the modifier _precursor_ also be changed by its connection to the word for permanent link? The link existed, because such links were never in the state of not existing, but weakened, with the presumption that it would become stronger?

_Spark resonant?_

That made more sense, if that was the case. Prowl and Arcee weren’t resonant, and Jazz was right: nothing was going to change that, not time together nor wishing for it. “Not… not mate, or soon-mate then.” Prowl said slowly, trying to think of a way to express the concept of mates that weren’t resonant with her still limited vocabulary. “Praxan pairs ain’t always got spark-calling. S’like… life-partners, partners who share sparks.” The connection forged by deep merging between even two non-resonant sparks was what constituted a legal bond in Praxus (and Iacon) and defined mates as Prowl knew them.

“Happens,” Jazz shrugged. “Spark resonance ain’t th’only reason t’want t’bond,” and _frag_ did that sentence make a lot more sense with her new translations! “Sometimes two people like each other enough t’try. But Arcee ain’t a good mate,” and that’s where the rest of Prowl’s confusion had come from: _another_ almost identical word for a pre-bonded couple, “t’Prowl. I am! I’ll give ya all the gifts!”

She jumped up, leaving Prowl suddenly aware of how warm she’d been, cuddled up against her side, to go dig through the tarp-wrapped cargo. “I’ve been savin’ things,” Jazz announced as she pulled them out, “fer when I found ya. Been waitin’ fer yer first escape attempt—” First? Jazz was expecting her to try again? That was going to make additional attempts even _more_ difficult! “—but then y’were so frightened and unsure I didn’t want t’overwhelm ya. But y’said gifts’re fer courting Praxans too, so…”

A moment later she returned with an armful of _stuff._ Prowl couldn’t tell what any of it was, and curiosity prompted her to ask about it rather than protesting that Jazz didn’t need to give her anything. “What’s all’a that?”

“Stand up,” Jazz instructed (Prowl had to hold onto the mast to keep on her feet on the moving catamaran), then pulled out a… piece of cloth, dyed a bright red and patterned with almost fluorescently bright yellow suns. More subtly stitched around the suns were lighter red, almost pink, stars. It was, Prowl realized as Jazz tied it around her waist to hang over her legs, one of the flag-like ornaments she’d seen many Polyhexians wearing in the Hightower markets. “Pretty, pretty!” Jazz grinned with pride, petting Prowl’s waist and legs more than had to be necessary for tying the garment on. “D’ya like?”

It was pretty, and the material was nice — woven polymers of some sort that didn’t hold or absorb water. Prowl turned back and forth, careful not to slip on the wet deck, trying to get a good look at it. The movement made the metallic gold fringe along the bottom edge swish over her plating, and Prowl turned again just to feel it. “I do like it,” she said, feeling over the complicated knot Jazz had tied to hold it on. Even if her hands weren’t bound, she didn’t think she’d be able to replicate it. “What is it?”

“S’called a _sarong,”_ Jazz purred, running her hand up the inside of Prowl’s thigh. “S’just fer being pretty. Got another fer ya too, t’layer.” Reluctantly she pulled her hands off Prowl’s plating and pulled out a slightly smaller bright blue polymer cloth, fringed and stitched in silver. This one she folded several times then tied around Prowl’s waist like a wide belt, with the long trailing ends of the cloth hanging over the knot and unavoidable slit in the one below.

It was quite striking, especially with her (still horrifically mangled) black and white color scheme. Then Jazz _ruined_ it by throwing her arms around Prowl’s waist and kiss-nibbling the plating of her abdomen, below the curve of her bumper. “Beautiful,” she murmured. “And _my_ mate,” yet _another_ word, closely related to the others. “Spark resonant.”

Prowl froze, then started pushing insistently at Jazz to get off her. “No, stop,” she pleaded, fighting off panic as Jazz immediately pulled away to regard her with a bemused expression. It hadn’t clicked before in her processor, but it did now: Jazz thought that _they_ were resonant. Prowl felt foolish for not making the connection earlier and desperately confused how the Polyhexian could possibly have gotten that idea. “Why would ya say that?”

“‘Cause y’are,” Jazz said slowly. “My spark feels yers callin’, and yer _everything_ I could’a dreamed about fer a mate. Resonant, mate,” she reached out to touch Prowl again, but her clawed fingers curled inward as she visibly restrained herself from doing so, “bonded.”

“But— How? When?” Prowl spluttered. “We barely _saw_ each other fer—” How long had it been? A couple of nanokliks? And they hadn’t even said a word to each other! If they were really resonant, wouldn’t _Prowl_ have felt something too? “Y’don’t know me at _all!_ How can ya know somethin’ like that?”

“I’ve been lookin’ fer ya,” Jazz said quietly, intently. “Lookin’ an’ savin’ things. Knew ya were out there somewhere. Asked th’ priest mage t’cast th’ spell’a findin’ on me before leavin’ th’islands t’trade. Every harvest season, I asked. I was… When I finally saw ya, I _couldn’t_ not… “ Jazz made a gesture like she was trying to pluck the words from the air. “I had t’try,” was what she settled on.

“Y’were that sure…?” After only a brief glance, the Polyhexian had been certain enough that she and Prowl shared spark resonance to, _that very night,_ successfully kidnap her from the castle to be her bonded mate?

Prowl sank weakly down the mast, collapsing slowly onto the deck. Could Jazz be right? She didn’t feel anything like the other femme described in her spark. Should she? Her processor and spark both were spinning too fast for her to sort anything out of the turbulence inside her right now. She needed to think, but she couldn’t!

“Why don’t I feel it then?” she asked plaintively, confusion and frustration combining to give her voice a choked sound. “If yer spark’s resonant with mine, why don’t I feel it?”

“Dunno,” Jazz said with a shrug. “Not everyone does. S’why th’mark lasts until th’end’a th’ lunar cycle. Not everyone’s gonna feel th’desire t’bond th’night they’re taken.” She paused. “An’ I do know ya. Learned a lot. Couldn’t ask fer a better bonded mate. Yer everything I dreamed about.”

“And what did ya dream of?” Surely not an inland princess! There had to be a mistake. Jazz couldn’t have been dreaming of her.

“Someone smart an’ strong an’ curious,” Jazz almost sang back; she pulled more things, bracelets made from red and gold and blue cloth from the pile and slipped them over Prowl’s unresisting wrists, caressing her hands with each one like she just couldn’t resist the chance to touch Prowl’s plating. “Clever. Independent. Adventurous.”

Prowl felt her jaw dropping farther with each descriptor. They were accurate — _too_ accurate. Some of those traits, especially that last, were things Prowl actively downplayed or _hid_ because they weren’t desirable qualities. Not in Praxus, and certainly not in its princess. “That ain’t me,” she whispered, not sure who she was really talking to: Jazz, or herself.

“I~is,” was the sing-song answer. “Ya want,” Jazz said insistently, “t’sail beyond th’horizon, just t’see what sorta bed th’sun makes fer ‘imself t’sleep in. Y’want t’know th’name’a every star in th’sky, t’spend yer life countin’ them. Y’want t’climb th’highest mountain, swim t’the deepest canyon. And I want t’see ya, be with ya, every step’a th’way.”

 _How?!_ How could Jazz know that? Because she did. Prowl did want those things, more than she’d ever admitted to anyone. But wanting meant nothing in the face of her obligations. “I… I can’t…”

“Will,” Jazz said quietly. “I’ll teach ya t’sail, t’fish, t’swim, t’climb… Ricochet’n me, we’ll go explore wherever ya want. All ya gotta do is pick a heading.” She stopped petting and held Prowl’s bound hands in hers. “I want ya. I want ALL’a ya.”

The sail made a snapping sound, and with a curse — something about the shore-winds having horrific senses of humor — she leapt up to adjust the sail, leaving Prowl a moment to think in peace.

When she’d said “I can’t”, she’d meant that she couldn’t have adventures like Jazz described, not that she wasn’t capable of them (though that was true as well). She was a princess. Leaving the capital for any length of time, even her engagement tour with Arcee, had been difficult to arrange. They only had one and a half kilocycles left before they were supposed to move on when Jazz had taken her. If the islander really meant to keep her until the end of the lunar cycle — and it _really_ didn’t look like Prowl was going to be able to convince her otherwise — she was going to be very late getting back.

Unless she escaped, which also wasn’t very likely now. She still planned to try again, but realistically her chances were slim and she knew it. Which meant being stuck out here for four more kilocycles.

A tiny part of her spark leapt at the prospect, but she squashed it firmly. This wasn’t an adventure, this was a mistake; a mistake Jazz had made because she thought being resonant (which Prowl still wasn’t sure she even believed!) was all she needed to kidnap her and make Prowl her mate. All well and good if Prowl had been Polyhexian. But she wasn’t. Prowl was Praxan, and she had to remember that.

No matter how tempting the things Jazz said were…

The boat lurched again as it turned and when the sail was secure again, Jazz came back to sit next to Prowl. The sun had finished setting and there were more stars in the sky, which made it difficult for Prowl to see what she was digging out of the pile of “gifts” she’d been saving.

A piece of patched together cloth, a spiked crescent, was what Jazz held out next. The colors were dim in the darkness, but Prowl thought they might have been several different shades of red. When Jazz handed it over she could feel it was a heavier polymer than the sarong was. Sailcloth? Scraps of sailcloth sewn together? Prowl traced the lines, feeling over it to see if there was any stitching. However it was held together, it was very well made. The seams were flat, even and strong. “What’s this?” she asked, completely at a loss for what it could be.

With a bright flash of teeth, Jazz took the thing and wrapped it around Prowl’s shoulders, laying it so the “spikes” fell over her pauldrons, arms, chest and back. _“Hikurere,”_ she murmured. “Sea dragon shawl. Cuz s’pretty, and it’ll keep ya a bit warmer if yer gonna stay out on th’deck tonight.” She tucked the ends under the layers of cloth draped across Prowl’s back and reached into the bundle to retrieve something else, which turned out to be a pair of magnets she used to attach the hikurere to Prowl’s plating so it wouldn’t slip. “Th’rest’a th’gifts can wait until mornin’, I think, when y’can see ’em properly — unless ya want t’play a game t’pass th’time. I got ya a few sets’a dice.” She smiled. “Nice dice!”

Much warmer now with her new accessories, Prowl decided she did want to stay on the deck. She flicked her doorwings to settle the points of the hikurere around them, then looked inquiringly at Jazz. “Dice?” There had been hundreds of dice among the stalls in the market at Hightower. They were apparently very good sellers with the island visitors, but Prowl didn’t know how they played with them and was curious to learn. “Fer Poly games?”

“Or Praxan ones. I know a few.” Prowl huffed a quiet laugh despite herself. She was willing to bet the king’s jewels that the games Jazz knew were the common tavern and casino games played, and bet on, throughout Praxus. She’d seen crude games of craps being played against alley walls in Hightower. Those running those games had evaporated pretty quickly when they saw her though. Gambling was taxed in Praxus; the last thing those hustlers wanted was a visit from the princess. Prowl knew how those games were played too, but preferred the complex games of strategy she could sometimes coax the king, or her teachers and advisors, into playing with her, which couldn’t be played with a simple set of dice. She was _much_ more interested in the Polyhexian games, even if they were simple.

She didn’t have anything she could bet on Praxan casino games anyway.

Jazz cuddled up to her side — “T’keep us warm,” she said with a saucy grin — and Prowl decided she’d allow it as long as Jazz kept any kisses or other arousing touches to herself. It _was_ warmer to sit like this.

It was also starting to be very hard to see. Jazz didn’t seem to have any trouble, but when Prowl looked up the only light was coming from the thin crescent of the moon and the blanket of stars spread out above them. She could barely see the thin triangle of the sail against that backdrop. Looking out over the water, she couldn’t see the dark shadow of land at all. She wasn’t even sure which way they were going! She wished her hands were unbound so she could cast her Light spell; it was just one of her cantrips so she could still remember it, even after casting it in the forest during her failed escape.

She watched Jazz withdraw a wide, shallow square box from the bundle and open it. There was a tantalizing glow coming from within but Jazz quickly pulled a set of plastic Praxan six sided dice from the box and spilled them out into the lid, which she placed on the deck where they both could reach it. A small bag came next with two kelapa bowls inside, which Jazz placed on the deck in front of each of them, and beads, which were left in the bag. Prowl couldn’t see their colors at all in the darkness.

“I can’t see,” she told Jazz, wondering how they were supposed to play anything if she couldn’t read the dice. Perhaps Jazz could, and could tell her what they said, but that wasn’t a good solution as far as Prowl was concerned. “D’ya have a light?”

Jazz’s glowing visor and the lines on her cheeks tilted as she regarded Prowl curiously. “Really? Can’t see at all?” She cursed. “I don’t have any lights. Never needed ‘em. Maybe this ain’t such a good idea…”

“I can see dark shapes. ‘S’about it.” But Prowl didn’t want Jazz to put the dice away! “I can make a light,” she said quickly, hoping she could convince Jazz to trust her to do it, “with magic.”

Jazz clucked worriedly. “Ain’t a good idea. Can’t stop t’chase ya right now…”

“Won’t run,” Prowl promised, even though saying that probably wouldn’t mean anything to Jazz. She tried to think of a way she could reassure her. “If… if ya bring me th’little round box—” it was the closest she could get to “glass jar” in Polyhexian “—from my bag‘n untie my hands, just long enough t’do th’magic, and…” Being in physical contact with Jazz wouldn’t actually hinder her ability to Shadow Jump away; it was her inability to see anywhere to jump to in the near-total darkness preventing that. But she could give Jazz the impression she couldn’t teleport if someone was holding onto her, rather than explaining the real mechanics of her magic… even if it encouraged her to be even _more_ handsy. “If y’hold on t’me th’whole time, how’m I supposed t’go anywhere?”

Without a word, Jazz got up to attend the sail, checking the ropes. Prowl didn’t think there was anything wrong with the boat; she thought she’d made Jazz angry with her pushing. But a few kliks later Jazz returned, more settled, and with the jar of glowing hexbugs Prowl needed to cast her Light spell.

Jazz sat behind Prowl and wrapped her legs around her waist and her arms around her chest, enveloping her in buzzing warmth. Prowl stifled a gasp; Jazz wasn’t trying to arouse. She was just holding onto Prowl as much as she could while she untied the ropes binding her wrists. But the lack of intent on Jazz’s part didn’t stop Prowl from feeling a flicker of heat that was purely internal.

Was that…? No. It was just arousal, triggered by the amount of contact and the association of Jazz being so close to her doorwings. Nothing more.

When the ropes came away, Jazz held Prowl’s wrists for several kliks more, almost reluctant to let them go. It felt nice, relieving the aches that had built up in her cables and tubing; she suppressed a moan of ~~arousal~~  relief. Jazz seemed to be an expert in rope-tying, and Prowl hadn’t been fighting them so there was no scuffs or raw plating from the ropes, but it still wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world.

“I need th’box,” Prowl said eventually, prompting Jazz to let go (of one hand) to pick it up. Once Prowl took it she slid her hands up Prowl’s arms, resting them just above her elbows so Prowl could move enough to unscrew the lid and lift out one of the tiny hexbugs inside. She replaced the lid quickly to prevent the rest from spilling, then had to think of something to cast the actual spell on. Using the jar itself would work, but Prowl didn’t want to risk it being washed off the deck by an unexpected wave. It would be better to use something fixed, something that wasn’t so easily lost.

She had it.

Closing the fingers of one hand over the hexbug, Prowl raised the other to her necklace. A simple word transferred the light of the hexbug to the star shell at her throat and magnified it, illuminating the deck in front of Prowl perfectly.

Jazz made an awed cooing sound, letting go of Prowl’s wrist to stroke over the necklace and Prowl’s throat, leaving thin trails of aroused fire in the wake of her claws…

“I’m done,” Prowl told her, holding up the jar. “Need ya t’put this away.” And stop doing that with her hands! There were dice to look at and games to learn, and Prowl was not going to let her own frame distract her like this.

Unfortunately Jazz did not seem inclined to cooperate. She took the hexbugs and retied Prowl’s hands, yes, but she didn’t otherwise move. She wrapped her hands around Prowl’s chest and abdomen, pulling herself closer and holding her tight with her legs. “So what game d’ya want t’play?” she murmured huskily into Prowl’s audio with an unmistakably _aroused_ flicker of her own EM field.

“Dice game,” Prowl said firmly; as firmly as she could. “No arousing touch.”

“Y’sure?” Jazz purred, pressing a kiss to the edge of the hikurere at the top of Prowl’s spinal struts, right over the cover on her networking plugs — not that Jazz had seemed particularly interested in those. Prowl didn’t even know those _could_ be so arousing! But despite her words and that final kiss, Jazz pulled away to cuddle back up against Prowl’s side where she’d been before, sharing _actual_ warmth, not the phantom warmth of arousal.

Jazz took the upside-down lid of the box the dice and bead-bag were kept in and presented it to Prowl, pride flickering in her EM field. In the light cast from the spell, Prowl could see ten large, red plastic dice with white-painted pips. She picked up a die and turned it in the light. It was similar to the dice she’d seen at the market, though this exact shade wasn’t one she’d come across. Jazz must have gotten them from a vendor Prowl hadn’t visited, or perhaps in one of the other port towns entirely. Still, there was nothing really new or unusual about them. The glow coming from the box was much more intriguing to Prowl.

Well, according to Jazz, all of this was part of gifts she’d gathered to give to her mate — to Prowl — when she found her. It felt a bit greedy, since she _wasn’t_ the mate Jazz had been saving them for, but she wanted to see!

There was a little more give in the rope binding her wrists this time, enough that she could scoop the dice up and cup them if she wanted to. Jazz was probably expecting her to do just that, but instead she set down the die she had picked up and reached for the box. “What’s makin’ the light?”

“More dice,” Jazz said dismissively. “Don’t need ‘em fer th’game.”

“But I want t’see,” Prowl insisted, pulling the box toward her. Jazz didn’t try and stop her, nudging it closer so she could see, but seemed almost confused as to why she would want to. She set aside the lid with the plastic dice so that Prowl had room to look at those still in the box.

There were more plastic polyhedrons like those Prowl had seen for sale in Hightower (all red, she absently noted), but there were also more six sided dice that… weren’t. They were the source of the glow, though their light was drowned out by Prowl’s Light spell as she brought the box closer. A variety of pictures in a variety of colors etched into a variety of materials greeted her. Pushing the plastic ones aside, Prowl picked up several of these dice and began turning them to see all the pictures.

Some dice, like the Praxan dice she was familiar with, had something different on each face, but a few had symbols that repeated. A blue six sided die had only three pictures on it, each appearing twice, while another off-white die with ten sides had a single symbol that appeared three times among seven others. Unlike the matching plastic dice, almost no two were alike. Even dice that seemed like pairs or sets based on the pictures were made of different materials, making for quite the colorful handful.

“They’re so pretty.” Prowl let the dice roll back into the box, keeping only a couple in her hand. “What do th’pictures say? There’s so many.” Lots more than the numeric arrangement of pips on the plastic dice. Interesting; none of them had written numbers on them, only pips or pictures. She pointed between the Polyhexian and Praxan dice. “Which mean th’same?”

“Y’like ‘em?” Jazz asked with surprise.

“Yes! Ain’t never seen dice like these before.” And she hadn’t the faintest idea how to read them! This was _fascinating!_

Jazz shrugged, still mystified, but dumped all but one of the red plastic dice back in the box with the others. “Pick ten that have six sides and different pictures on all th’sides then. We can play wit’ those if y’want.”

Eagerly Prowl sorted through the pile for ones that fit the criteria. The first one she pulled out was a shimmery opaque rose color with the pictures etched in gold. When she shaded it from her Light spell so she could see if this one glowed, the etchings turned a bright, eerie green. The pictures seemed entirely random to Prowl: a mech on a boat holding a net, two mechs on a boat, clouds and lightning over an empty boat, a mech laying surrounded by fish, a pair of hands holding the sun, and a bizarre creature resembling a cybergull with a long proboscis. When she presented it to Jazz, the other femme plucked it out of her fingers to set it down with the mech holding the net facing up, next to the Praxan die with the single pip, indicating that picture was the lowest value.

Now looking for the picture of the net-holding mech to help her find “matching” dice, Prowl picked out another die with the same pictures, this one a mottled blue with flecks of grey and purple and offered it to Jazz.

“S’th’story of a fishermech who died’a broken spark,” Jazz said as she put it next to the other. She pointed to the lowest value face, currently displaying the mech with the net. “Claw never dreamed he’d ever find a mate. ‘Is passion was fer the sea and the fish ‘e caught from it. Every sunrise ‘e’d sail out and cast ‘is nets. Until ‘e found ‘er: a beautiful blue femme, just lounging on an empty island with no kattumaram in sight. It was th’harvest season, so ‘e took ‘er without worry.”

“No worry?” If escapes and rescue attempts were an expected part of taking a mate, what was there to be concerned with? “Of what?”

“War.” Jazz shrugged. “Happens sometimes, ‘f’ya try ta take an outclan mate durin’ th’warrin’ season.” She didn’t wait for Prowl to find another die, instead she just advanced all three dice, the Praxan die so the side with two pips was facing up and the other two showed two mechs — or one mech and one femme, apparently — on the boat. “Fer a lunar cycle they courted, an’ Claw was mystified that none’a ‘er kin ever came after ‘im fer her, but despite th’mystery, ‘e was th’happiest ‘e could imagine when they bonded.”

Given what she had learned about the traditional response to kidnapping, Prowl could only guess the femme must have been separated from her clan, or for some reason didn’t have one.

The third side, three pips and the clouds and lightning over an empty boat, was next. “When th’storm season came, they found themselves in the fiercest one Claw could imagine, and th’wind snatched ‘is bonded right outta th’kattumaram and inta th’sea.” Prowl shivered, unconsciously huddling closer to Jazz. “‘E followed ‘er overboard. ‘E searched and searched, but ‘e couldn’t find ‘is beloved. Worse, th’storm had swept ‘im away from th’boat. ‘E was alone and lost in th’sea.”

Four pips, and the picture of the mech laying surrounded by fish. “Claw drowned,” Jazz said simply.

“That’s awful,” Prowl said sadly, imagining the desperate terror he must have felt, unable to save his bondmate or himself.

Jazz patted her hand. “Was. And ‘is beloved, who wasn’t a mortal femme at all, couldn’t accept it. She reshaped ‘is form inta somethin’ else and put ‘is spark back inta it,” she said, turning the dice over to five pips and the picture Prowl had thought was hands holding the sun, but now could see was a spark. Then she advanced the dice to the final sides, six pips and the picture of the strange birdlike creature. “’E became th’first monster.”

Prowl contemplated the story and how it was connected to the values of the dice sides. Strange that they didn’t use numbers in their own language for them. Instead they used the story, with the values increasing as the story progressed.

“We need eight more,” Jazz reminded her gently.

“Right.” Prowl returned to sifting through the dice. Jazz’s attention was divided between the boat’s course and Prowl while she went through them, trying to choose others to play with.There weren’t any more with the pictures for Claw’s story, so she pulled out a nearly white die with rounded edges and multi colored etchings and presented it to Jazz to translate.

“That’s th’story’a the Koka,” Jazz said, getting up occasionally to tend the sail as she told the tale. The Koka was a mechanimal (or god; she wasn’t very clear which) that lived in the swamps. He had nine legs and, having so many legs, he could catch anything that ran, swam or flew and eat it. He ate so many other mechanimals (or gods) that they decided something had to be done, but none could figure out what. Finally the Kokako, a trickster bird, went to the Koka and convinced it to trade his legs for a succession of other ferocious traits. The first face of the die showed the nine legged Koka, while the next ones depicted him after each trade: first a large jaw (the picture showed the now eight legged Koka with a large, pointed snout), the teeth to fill it (seven), a large swimming tail (six legs, but with a new tail), claws (five), and the ability to hold his breath (four). Finally, when the Koka only had four legs left and was a heavy, slow beast that labored to walk on them, the Kokako perched on a branch overhanging the swamp to brag. Annoyed, the Koka lost his temper and used his new swimming tail to lunge out of the water with killing speed and swallowed the Kokako in one bite of his new large and tooth-filled jaws.

“So,” Jazz finished up the story, with the four-legged Koka facing up to indicate its equivalency to the six pips on the Praxan die, “th’Koka’s still th’most ferocious critter in th’swamps, but now y’can git away by stayin’ away from th’water.”

“Too bad fer the Kokako,” Prowl giggled, amused despite the grim ending for the bird. “He learned that lesson a little too late!”

“That he did,” Jazz laughed with her. “Pick another!”

Prowl did, choosing another mottled blue with more purple than the first. This one had a series of elaborate spiral shells etched on the faces, which Jazz claimed told the story of Moke. Again whether this was a mechanimal or a god was fuzzy, though in this case Jazz was definitely telling a story about a specific individual rather than the progenitor of a species as a whole. A more humorous tale, Moke was a tiny creature Jazz described as similar to the nijan, but with no shell of his own. He lived in the cast-off shells of other creatures, starting with a very large shell-house (the largest, most elaborate picture was the lowest value face on this die), but in a series of gambling games with the mischievous Kokako he lost his houses and had to keep moving into smaller ones. When at last he was in the smallest, plainest shell-house, the Kokako tried to break in and eat Moke, but Moke poked out the trickster bird’s optic with his claw.

“‘N that’s why th’kokako always grab Moke’s kind by the claws before breaking the shells,” Jazz finished. “Least that lesson didn’t cost ‘im his life!”

With two stories now featuring Kokako, Prowl wondered if the bird would appear in the next as well. The next three she chose, however, in varying shades of green with different colors for the pictures (yellow, black, and white-and-black), were “simply” pictures of various spirit animals. One of them had a fishing cat and Jazz declared that one the highest value face on that die, but encouraged Prowl to assign values to the others. She ranked them according to size, once she learned what they all were, as something easy to remember.

She found another pearlescent pink die that didn’t glow like the first, covered with a series of tentacles thrusting out of the ocean. Prowl expected them to be representative of an adventure story about a large sea monster, but it turned out they were just a numerical advancement like the pips. Though since the lowest number of tentacles depicted was two and the last face had thirteen, they didn’t advance at a nice regular pace like pips did.

A dark grey die that looked like it had been carved from stone with softly glowing blue etchings drew her attention next. That one Jazz described as the bizarre life-cycle of a drifting bell-shaped creature with tendrils that floated through the water to snag prey. The lowest value face was of a spark floating through the water. Second was the spark having gathered the minerals around it to become a blobby creature that swam with short tendrils. On the third face, it had settled onto a rock and developed into a plant-like thing with tendrils reaching up into the water. On the fourth, that thing had started to divide, looking like a stack of plates. Fifth it had cast off one of those plates to swim freely through the water, but it looked like a floppy star rather than the adult creature, which was depicted on the sixth, highest value face.

“Have ya seen a real one before?” Prowl asked, wondering at such a strange and incredible creature.

“More’n one. Kakaru bloom like crystal flowers. I’ve seen places where th’sea’s so thick with ‘em it looks like y’could walk on ‘em!” Jazz walked her fingers along Prowl’s arm, then chuckled. “Can’t really though. Ain’t solid enough, and all kakaru have stingers, many lethal. Not water y’wanna go swimmin’ in.”

If their stingers were that dangerous, Prowl had no intention of doing so. Not that she expected to ever have the opportunity. Moving on, she picked one last die of a vivid, optic-catching orange with pictures illuminated with a silvery light that almost twinkled. They were of fierce, stylized mech faces. Each one represented a different hero, and Jazz told the story of each of them — from the mech who stole fire from the gods, to the first one to ever kill a koka so that mechs no longer had to fear the beast, thus granting them the ability to sail beyond the islands — while Prowl listened, fascinated. But when Prowl asked how to rank the heroes so the values of the die could be determined, Jazz just shrugged and told her to do it. Since the koka sounded terrifying from the previous story, she made that one the highest value.

“That’s ten,” she said, holding them all together in her palms. “What now?”

“Now y’should eat, then sleep,” Jazz said gently, retrieving the kelapa balls. “Sunrise is soon. We can play tomorrow.” She held one out against Prowl’s lips.

Prowl gave a short huff with her vents, but didn’t say anything. Jazz would only take the opportunity to push the candy into her mouth if she did. Optics fixed on Jazz’s face and lips set in a firm line, Prowl reached for the box to put the dice away so she could take the fuel from Jazz and feed herself. Jazz chuckled and just held the ball of sweet fuel against Prowl’s lips.

She made a clucking sound. Prowl gave a low growl in response.

Jazz cooed. “That’s gotta be the most adorable sound I’ve ever heard.”

Indignation spiked in Prowl’s EM field. “It wa—” and that was as far as she got before Jazz grinned and popped the ball past her parted lips. Prowl’s engine gave another frustrated growl, but she let her hands fall to her lap in defeat, accepting the tasty treat. It was harder than they’d been when still paste, but still chewable, and still as delicious as when they had first mixed them. Prowl savored it until the last of it melted away. With a pleased hum, Jazz pressed a kiss to Prowl’s closed lips.

This time Prowl let out a startled squeak and jerked back, nearly knocking her head into the mast. “What wa—” her mouth was suddenly filled with another kelapa ball, followed by another kiss. Jazz chuckled against her lips, and Prowl debated shoving her away. She’d told her not to do that! …Kind of. She hadn’t specifically said no kissing, and right now the touches certainly weren’t arousing — they were more of a mix of amusing and annoying.

And Jazz was waiting with a third. She was finding this game extremely entertaining.

“How m’ny y’plannin’ on feedin’ me?” Prowl asked, keeping her teeth locked tightly together and her lips as closed as possible.

Jazz laughed softly. “Prowl ain’t gonna go hungry. Gonna feed ya all’a ‘em.” She wiggled the waiting candy. With a sigh, Prowl relented and opened her mouth. This time Jazz’s kiss caught her an instant before her lips closed and Prowl felt a hint of the still unfamiliar heat of arousal. She closed her mouth hurriedly and felt the other femme smile against her plating.

But Jazz pulled away, didn’t push for anything more.

“Don’t need all’a’em,” she mumbled when she had finished the third candy, though she probably could eat them all and not wind up overcharged like she had before.

Still, she was sleepy when Jazz fed her the last one. Her lips tingled with Jazz’s kisses.

She let Jazz support her as she stood up on the rocking deck, preparing to make her way back to the sleeping pad. Tiredly she cancelled her light spell.

And saw a faint glow in the water behind the catamaran.

Suddenly she was wide awake again. “What’s that?” she asked, changing directions to move toward the light. “Why’s it glowing?”

“Wake-light,” Jazz said. “Water glows as th’kattumaram — or any large thing, like a big, big fish or a sea monster — passes. Sometimes it happens near th’shore, with just th’disturbance’a th’waves.”

It really did. As her optics adjusted to the dark, Prowl saw thousands of tiny scintillating lights, like the starry sky above, but only in the wake of the ship. The lights glowed blue, almost exactly the same color as the glowing tribal markings both of them wore.

“Is that where th’glowin’ paint comes from?” Wait, Jazz had said that came from a fish, not the water… “Does it make th’fish glow?”

“We call it th’wake-light fish because’a the wake-glow,” Jazz confirmed. “Wake-light fish’re caught on very long, deep lines; never near th’surface. They drink th’water and keep th’glow. When Stormrunner—” that was one of the mechs whose faces were depicted on the die of heroes, the one who had seduced the island-building goddess of fire, Keahi, to steal fire for mortals (and in the process mixed the sparks of Polyhexians with that of divinity, such that they believed themselves to be the sparks of gods — a common belief, in Prowl’s research. Mainland religions had similar tales, though they usually attributed the spark of divinity to either Primus or Unicron, gods who seemed to be absent from Polyhexian religion) “—was runnin’ across th’sea t’escape Keahi’s wrath, ‘e dropped th’torch inta th’sea. ‘E rescued it before it went out, but th’fires of Keahi were so hot they left a scorch mark even on Moana,” the Polyhexian god of the sea, “himself. As th’chase went on, ‘e dropped th’torch,” Jazz shrugged, “many, many times. And even now, when somethin’ disturbs th’water on one’a those places, y’can see th’glow of those fires.”

“Fire hot enough to burn water…” It was an interesting story, though it didn’t provide an answer that truly sated Prowl’s curiosity. All it told her was that the wake-light phenomenon only happened in some places, which meant it was likely a property of something _in_ the water, rather than the water itself (whatever the legend said). But what was that something? Was there a way to isolate and identify it? Prowl leaned in closer for a better look. With a chuckle, Jazz let go of her — Prowl’d almost forgotten the islander was holding onto her — and she stumbled with the movement of the boat. That was alright; falling to her knees brought her closer to those enticing lights (though she was glad she was still harnessed to the mast!).

Jazz left her there, going back to the sail. It seemed that, despite her earlier statement that Prowl should sleep, she didn’t feel the need to force her to bed — which put her a step above some of the royal advisors in Praxus, in Prowl’s opinion! There was nothing wrong with falling asleep over her books! …Or, er, on the deck of a ship. It wasn’t like she was going to be able to _sleep_ when there were pretty, mysterious lights in the water to investigate!

Prowl settled at the edge of the deck, gazing down at the wake-light. Up close she could see clearly that it wasn’t a solid glow. There were individual motes of light that lit up brighter than the rest, floating through the water like comets in the sky behind the catamaran. It was mesmerizing, watching them dance across the surface then roll down into the sea, carrying their light down with them before disappearing. Some of them kept on glowing as the boat left them behind, while others dimmed at the edges of their wake, fading until their light went out. The more agitated the water, the brighter they were. It made Prowl want to reach down and touch, to stir up the water even more, but even laying flat on the deck her reach wasn’t quite long enough.

After trying futilely to reach the waves (and coming to the conclusion that it wouldn’t have made a difference even if her hands hadn’t been bound) Prowl brought her arms back up and remained where she was, laying on the deck to watch the lights. Every now and then the stars appeared in the water, reflected among the wake-lights before the waves broke them up, but eventually they disappeared as the sky began to lighten.

The wind ruffled the edges of the hikurere on her shoulders and the sea spray splashed against her face, but they couldn’t hold off the drowsiness that accompanied the approaching dawn. Head pillowed on her arms, Prowl let the motion of the boat lull her into a sort of half-sleep as the wake-light grew harder to see.

By the time Jazz lifted her and gently settled her into sleeping pad in the hull, the only light left was the sun.

.

.

.

It wasn’t like Ricochet didn’t know how to use her alt-form. She’d won many alt-form races across the salt flats (and shared sparks with those eager to merge with the winner) on the islands. But this long distance _driving_ the stupid Praxans insisted on doing to chase Jazz’s kattumaram was stupid and futile and it _hurt._

By the time stupid Arcee was willing to let them stop for a few sun marks to rest, Ricochet hurt in places she hadn’t even known it was _possible_ to hurt.

Not that she was going to complain! She was a fishing cat possessed _warrior._ She was not going to show pain or weakness in front of these… these _idiots_ who didn’t even know how to dig up a remis!

Now _that_ had been amusing to watch.

Right now though, she was too tired to even be amused by their ineptitude. She ate her ration of tiere and snuggled up against Smokescreen’s warmth. The mech wrapped an arm around her with an exhausted sigh, but said nothing. Good. She wasn’t going to bother trying to talk. She needed the rest. They’d be continuing their breakneck pace tomorrow.

She was still pissed Jazz had abandoned her in Hightower without a word. They were _twins._ Jazz didn’t need a bonded mate! But that anger was getting hard to sustain. Jazz had never hidden that she wanted and was _looking_ for her spark resonant mate; Ricochet had just always thought her search was futile. Jazz wasn’t going to find a spark resonant because she was already _bonded_ to her twin. But if Jazz had found her resonant mate, then it wasn’t really Jazz’s fault that she’d gone and done exactly what she’d always said she would, was it? No, it was Ricochet’s for being surprised and angry.

Maybe she should be angrier than she was that Jazz’s mate was one of these idiot mainlanders, but — she snuggled further into Smokescreen’s plating — she wasn’t. Idly she traced the seam of his chest armor with her claws, wishing she had the energy for a merge. That had been fun. If he weren’t a mainlander (and if Jazz didn’t have their kattumaram), she’d take him. He was surprisingly good company, and his sense of humor was sharp and a good match for hers.

And he was an awful lot of fun to tease.

Ignoring the sounds of the others finding comfortable places to sleep, Ricochet focused on the quiet humming of Smokescreen’s engine beneath her head and let it and her exhaustion pull her under into sleep.

Not quite asleep yet himself, Smokescreen could tell when Ricochet dropped off by the subtle shift in the sound of her engine and the minute relaxation of her face. He might not have noticed either if she weren’t right on top of him, but, as was becoming her habit, she was. He felt her hand still its stroking and lay flat against his chest.

Smokescreen couldn’t bring himself to complain, even if the Iaconi princess did. Ricochet was warm. He liked being warm. Especially when getting chilled would just make the aches in his joints worse than they already were. He might be more used to driving than Ricochet, but non-stop all-terrain marathoning was _not_ the same as joyriding around town. He would much rather be cruising for a good time than out here in the wilderness with dwindling supplies and an increasingly cranky Arcee.

Speaking of… “Why do you tolerate that?” Arcee asked, well, _crankily._

“Tolerate what?” Ricochet laying on him? Petting him? Both? “She’s not bothering me. And she’s warm.” Arcee would do well to cuddle up with one of her guards, quite frankly, but it wasn’t his place to suggest such a thing.

In fact, Arcee was the only one of their small party who was sleeping alone. Drift had curled up with his dogs, and after the last of the Praxan guards had diverted off on their own course, Hot Rod had begun piling in with them without shame.

“Her _harassment,”_ the princess elaborated. Despite her petulant tone, Smokescreen heard the despairing and fearful notes that lurked behind the words, belying the real issue. Arcee was worried about Prowl.

“She does stop when I ask her to,” he said, hoping Arcee could find at least some comfort in that. “Polys are very tactile, but they respect when a mech or femme says no.” He would have shrugged, but pinned to the ground like he was the best he could do was give a lopsided grin. “I guess I’m just used to it from spending so much time with them in Hightower, so it doesn’t feel like harassment.” Well, pawing at his chest-seam would still count as harassment from a stranger, but from Ricochet… If they had a bit more energy (and privacy), Smokescreen might not have kept his armor latched under those fingers.

No way he was saying that to Arcee though. The princess was suspicious enough of Ricochet (and him, when he’d done nothing to deserve it!) without knowing what they had shared — and what Smokescreen would readily share again.

“I’m afraid,” Arcee whispered after a pause in a rare show of weakness. “Prowl must be so frightened, alone and helpless and forced to fend off such advances…” she shivered. “She’s a very sweet femme. I don’t want to imagine what this ordeal is doing to her, but I can’t help it.”

Smokescreen didn’t know Prowl as well as her intended, having only met the princess twice, but he had liked her a lot. He didn’t like to think about how hard things might be for her either, though he doubted she was suffering anywhere near as much as Arcee imagined. Jazz would absolutely respect her if she didn’t want to merge, and she would be keeping her warm and fed — something the princess might even be enjoying, given the curiosity and interest she’d expressed in Polyhexian fuel.

“For a warrior, the kidnapping is about proving themselves and wooing a potential mate, not forcing them,” Smokescreen tried to assure Arcee. “It’s in Jazz’s interests to get the princess to like her, and that means taking care of her, not scaring her.”

Arcee heard the assurances, but wasn’t listening. “You’re a good mech, Smokescreen.”

With that the blue femme turned over and initiated her own recharge, leaving Smokescreen as the last one awake looking up at the stars. He felt a pang of sympathy for her, lying there alone in the dark like she was punishing herself for not saving Prowl before. Smokescreen had missed the fight, but he couldn’t see how she could have done anything more after hearing a full account of all the gory details. Jazz had been in her element, and she was _good._ Ricochet had privately expressed surprise that they’d come as close as they had, in fact.

All in all, if (ha!) he were a betting mech, Smokescreen would put his money on the full moon being what finally ended their chase. With that in mind, he powered off his optics to get some rest himself. There was a lot more time — and driving — between now and then.

.

.

.

Prowl woke, again warm and dry under the blanket in the catamaran’s sleeping pad. She could almost smell the afternoon sun, but instead of the gentle rocking of the boat at rest and the comforting and restraining weight of Jazz sleeping on top of her, she felt the harder motion of the catamaran still sailing. Jazz was still up.

This time she didn’t panic at waking up with her feet bound and her mouth gagged. She still didn’t _like_ it, but at least it wasn’t as jarring as it had been the first time. “Aafv?” she called, hoping Jazz could hear her muffled voice over the sound of the waves.

Jazz appeared immediately with a welcoming smile. This time there was no hesitation when she reached down to untie Prowl’s legs and gag. She attached a rope to the harness Prowl still wore, then disappeared back up onto the deck, busy.

Prowl sat up in the hull, watching her sail for awhile. There was an awful lot involved in sailing even a tiny boat like this, apparently; more than she would ever have guessed. And they _were_ going in a zigzag path. With the sun high in the sky, Prowl could see the coast moving closer, then farther away, then closer again. Jazz was changing direction every breem or so. Last night there had been much more time between those changes. No wonder Jazz was too busy to talk now.

“Why’re ya doin’ that?’

Jazz finished tightening the rope and looked over at Prowl. “Everything’s got ta be tied down tight. Sail don’t do much if it’s loose, and th’rest’a th’boat would fall apart if things weren’t tight.”

That made sense, and Prowl definitely didn’t want the boat coming apart under them. “But why sail back and forth?”

“Channel’s narrow here,” Jazz answered, scampering to check on some other part of the boat. “And th’wind’s comin’ from th’s wrong direction t’just follow it. Gotta follow the channel without hittin’ any rocks ’n still use the winds.”

“You can sail in a different direction than the wind?”

“Can,” Jazz confirmed, grunting as she pulled another rope tighter and tied it off. Prowl didn’t ask any more questions, not wanting to distract her. Instead, she alternated between watching her work and looking over the edge of the hull into the water.

Even knowing they must be there, because Jazz had said they were, Prowl couldn’t see any rocks beneath the surface. Just the reddish, rust laden water. Faintly she could just see her own reflection, and barely recognized herself. The tribal paint still glowed on top of her degraded finish, and with all the new things she was wearing, she almost looked like one of the Polyhexians wandering the market!

That thought made her remember that she hadn’t actually seen the sarong or hikurere in full daylight yet. She went to pull the blanket back to get it out of the way, but paused to take a good look (her first!) at it when she noticed that it had patterns woven into it as well. Instead of folding it up, Prowl spread it out over her legs, lifting it just enough so the wind could catch it and unfurl the corners before laying it back down.

It was a tapestry! Once she could see the whole design, it was obvious that the blanket and the tapestries she’d so admired (and purchased so many of) back in Hightower were the same. After listening to the stories about the small pictures on the dice, Prowl was sure there had to be a story that went along with the pictures: a fleet of boats and a giant fish, surrounded by smaller pictures of mechs and femmes engaged in various activities. Most of them looked like they had to do with making tools and weapons. Perhaps a great hunt? Or were the smaller pictures the result of capturing the giant fish, rather than the preparation?

She had assumed they must be tapestries because of the material they were made from, completely unlike any blanket she was used to. Now, however, after being at sea for several cycles, Prowl could appreciate why they were made like this. Layers of colored plastic and metallic threads kept in warmth, and the weatherproofing she’d thought was to keep them from deteriorating on the walls served much more practically to keep water off a sleeping sailor.

But why make them so intricate if they were just going to be used as normal blankets? Why put so much work into something that wasn’t going to be displayed to see?

She climbed out of the hull, leaving the still full shell of kelapa balls under the blanket. “Oh!” The _whole sleeping pad_ was covered in colors and patterns. The pad was a patchwork of bright scraps with a spotted cybercat with a fish in its jaws snarling out from the surface of the pillow.

“Is this a fishing cat?” she asked Jazz, taking a guess based on what the islander had said about her spirit guide.

Jazz took a moment to glance at her and what she was asking about. “Yeah,” she said. “Was a lucky find durin’ a raid. Fishing cats don’t choose many mechs t’guide, and it’s bad luck t’make a too detailed image, unless yer one’a ‘em.”

“Meanin’ you could make one, if ya wanted.” Though picking it up in a raid was probably quite the time saver. “Why put it on th’pad, where it ain’t hardly seen?”

“Could,” Jazz climbed partway up the mast to check something, “but I ain’t got any skill fer images. And why not put it there? Ain’t no one who ain’t on the boat’s gonna see it anyway. S’fer my pleasure — mine and Rico’s.”

“Then ya don’t… show yer spirit guide? Display it?” Prowl wasn’t sure how to say what she meant, since the idea of household crests was probably an alien one to Jazz. If a house were protected by a specific mechanimal or god in Praxus, it would be on display all over to let everyone know.

Jazz flicked the tooth — the very large tooth — that hung from the shell and pearl choker around her neck. “Don’t need more’n this. Rico and me — we _are_ fishing cats. Everyone can see it. Don’t need t’display.”

“I can’t see it.” Prowl winced a little at how petulant that had sounded, then buried her pouting behind a barrage of questions. “How does everyone know? What about that says fishing cat? And how’d _you_ know? Y’said it came t’both’a ya — what was it like?”

“S’a fishing cat tooth,” Jazz answered patiently. “And when ya start lookin’, yer guide finds ya. Everyone we knew thought Rico’d be a koka, an’ I’d be a songbird or maybe even a kokako.” Jazz flashed a smile as the sail swung and the boat lurched. “But when we started lookin’… We sailed off ‘n’ got very, very lost. Trapped in th’swamp. Thought we’d be eaten by a koka that found us, but that’s when the fishing cat found us and gave us her strength, speed and senses. Th’rage, y’saw. We were possessed. Killed th’koka. Ate it. After, we found th’carcass of an old fishing cat, just struts and teeth. We took th’teeth so that everyone could see what we are now.”

“Ohh.” That sounded like it had been frightening. It also sounded like it could have been coincidence, finding the cat afterward… but then, maybe it hadn’t been. How could Prowl say, when she hadn’t been there and didn’t understand how the islander’s magic worked? “I’m glad it chose ya,” she found herself saying.

“Bein’ a kokako would’a been fun,” Jazz said cheerfully. “But th’fishing cat’s better. Would’ve been less fun t’be somethin’ different from Rico.”

“What would’a been different?”

“If Ricochet’n me were different mechanimals?” The sail made a snapping noise and Jazz cursed as she hurried to adjust it. “Maybe wouldn’t’ve been able t’live on the same kattumaram fer long. Still travel together, stay in sight and calling range, maybe, but there’s risks t’that. Would’ve had t’stay near the islands more, with more’a our kin around us, or else risk one or th’other being taken.”

Not live on the same boat? Was that a restriction placed on mechs and femmes with different spirit guides by Polyhexian culture, or was there something that actively made being in close proximity difficult? “Why not still live on th’same kattumaram anyway?” She didn’t have to ask what Jazz meant by being taken, which actually raised another question. “What happens if one’a a pair’a twins bonds?”

Jazz checked the side of the boat, looking for the promised rocks maybe, before answering. “Koka and kokako on th’same boat?” She laughed. “Twins or no, we would’a killed each other. And,” she came and crouched next to where Prowl sat, brushing her fingers over her chevron. “Since I took ya, ya’ll join our clan. Ain’t nothing’ll happen.” She kissed Prowl’s forehead, then cheek, then lips. Quick, pleasant but unarousing pecks. “If it’d been one’a’us taken — by a suitor or a storm — th’two clans’d sort it out durin’ th’next harvest season gathering.”

Prowl nodded, though privately she thought it was even more of a non-issue in her case because she and Jazz _weren’t bonding._

The problem of Jazz living with her twin if they had been different animals was easier to comprehend when she reframed the idea of spirit guides along the lines of personality types. Looking at it that way, Prowl could see that some combinations would be disastrous in the forced proximity of a small boat. It… actually made the idea of kidnapping someone and living alone with them for a lunar cycle to see if you could stand each other almost make sense. From a Polyhexian standpoint, at least.

With Arcee, it didn’t matter that they got along; just that they found a way to work around each other if they couldn’t work with each other.

Not wanting to dwell on that rather depressing thought, Prowl went back to wondering about spirit animals. If Jazz’s kin had thought she would be a kokako before the fishing cat chose her, then there had to be a way of guessing based on a mech or femme’s personality. And if Jazz thought she knew Prowl so well… “What would I be?”

“Somethin’ that can live with a fishing cat.” Jazz kissed her again, another quick brush of lips. “We’re resonant, so we can’t be _too_ different. Beyond that… ain’t no one who can tell ya who yer guide is but ya. When she finds ya, ya’ll know. But until then…” Jazz kissed her again, this time lingering for a moment. “Until then, I’ll just have’ta guess. Maybe yer th’kokako.” She grinned.

“Sure felt like one,” Prowl complained. Jazz hadn’t said mainlanders _couldn’t_ have spirit guides, but she hadn’t enjoyed being the bird hunted by the cat in the forest. No; if she were going to have a spirit guide, she wanted it to be a predator. Not prey.

“Yer _not_ prey,” Jazz unconsciously echoed her thoughts. She kissed Prowl, again on the lips, then pushed herself back up to change the direction they were sailing again.

“Kokako’s a great guide,” she said brightly a breem later while she retied all the ropes. “They’re predators, ain’t as fierce as a koka, but y’aint a killer, beautiful. Kokako’re quick ‘n clever, and very, very smart. They make tools t’hunt with. They learn from all manner’a creatures and teach what they learn ta others’a their kind. They’re curious. They’re always flippin’ over rocks just t’see what’s under ‘em. They take apart our things, just t’see how they’re put together, and we’re always chasin’ ‘em away from our villages and kattumaram, or else we’ll come back t’find ‘em in pieces. Knots untied, not snipped through. Some’a ‘em have a knack fer language and learn all manner’a bird languages and even sometimes learn t’talk ta us.”

That didn’t sound so bad, actually. A much better impression than the one she had gotten from the stories. Prowl wouldn’t mind a guide that was curious and smart. Then Jazz gave a soft laugh. “They’re also compulsive thieves, attracted t’all sorts’a shiny, colorful things. Foolish, reckless and loud. Yer a lott’a things, beautiful, but y’ain’t any’a those.”

Prowl shook her head in agreement, though she was smiling. She could see why some might have thought the bird was a good fit for Jazz though, based on that description. “Must be somethin’ else then,” she said, though what she hadn’t the faintest idea. Who knew? Maybe one of the strange creatures Jazz pulled from the sea would have unexpected parallels to her personality… though she doubted she was anything like a sharkticon!

“Must be,” Jazz agreed happily. “She’ll find ya, when ya start lookin’.” She fussed with the rudder and sail, looking out at the water. “And we’re movin’ outta th’channel. Got open sea t’one side again. Means,” she sat down next to Prowl and wrapped her arms around her, stroking her side. She kissed Prowl’s cheek. “Means I can pay attention ta ya. Hungry?”

“Only if I can feed myself this time.”

Jazz snickered. “But ‘s fun.”

“Y’want fun?” Prowl gave Jazz a shrewd smile. “Teach me th’dice game then.”

Jazz snickered again. “Fine. Y’can feed yerself… this time, if y’let me arouse ya a bit. That’s fun too. We got nijan, tiere, and kelapa.”

All good choices, though Prowl still gave a frustrated huff at having to trade favors for being allowed to feed herself. Of course, it did feel good… in a way it didn’t feel so much like trading one thing for another as getting two things she wanted. She wasn’t willing to say that out loud though. With a deep sigh of (false) protest, Prowl selected, “Nijan, please.” She didn’t want anything sour right now, and she knew the kelapa balls were limited and didn’t want to finish them all off just yet. More than that, she wanted to watch Jazz take the nijan apart again. “Show me?”

“Yes!” Jazz scrambled across the deck to the other hull so quickly she didn’t even rise fully from all fours. She dug through the cargo and pulled two nijan out of their crate and scrambled back over to Prowl.

“No magic,” she warned as she dumped the two nijan to the deck between them. They landed on their backs, legs and claws waving helplessly in the air.

“No magic,” Prowl agreed, holding out her hands. Not right now, anyway. She didn’t have the components she needed for most of her spells, and if she really was going to make a break for it, _after_ she’d finished fueling would be smarter. Besides, they were too far from land for her to Shadow Jump to it right now.

Deftly, Jazz untied the ropes and handed Prowl the long, thin knife. She nudged one of the nijan closer to Prowl. Jazz had always picked them up so easily, but now that it was her turn, Prowl wasn’t completely sure how to go about it. Those pincer claws suddenly looked a lot bigger now that she was about to stick her hand into the middle of them. But she’d seen it done! It wasn’t impossible; she just had to figure it out.

Knowing the nijan would stop flailing once she killed it, Prowl tried to remember where Jazz had stabbed them and readied the knife. Then, not giving herself a chance to get worked up over it, she went to pick it up.

“Ow!” She dropped it when she felt the sharp bite of one of its claws dig into her finger.

“Not that way,” Jazz said gently.

Prowl waited for admonishment, instruction, warnings, like the ones her magic instructors had heaped on her every time her studies required handling something even mildly harmful… but none were forthcoming. Jazz just waited for her to try again.

So try again she did. The nijan clamped its claw around the side of her hand this time, making her hiss in pain, but she didn’t drop it. Instead, she whacked it against the deck until it let go and then stabbed at it with the knife, the second strike hitting something that made its limbs go limp. “Did I get it?” she asked, unsure if it was dead or just paralyzed.

“Fierce warrior,” Jazz said, “vanquished a powerful foe. Yeah, beautiful. Y’killed it.”

Prowl picked the dead nijan back up, grinning triumphantly. “I don’t remember th’next bit so well. Can I watch ya do it first?”

“Kattumaram’s movin’ too much; ‘s better ta just bite it,” Jazz effortlessly picked up her own (still very much alive) nijan and pointed to the spot where the upper shell joined to the lower one, “here.”

Prowl turned the nijan in her hand around until she located the spot Jazz had indicated. Rather than trying to actually bite through it, she took the point of the knife and pierced the shell, wiggling it back and forth until she’d formed a small hole in it to drink from. “‘M teeth ain’t sharp like yers,” she said with a smile that exposed her flat, even teeth. “Knife’s easier.”

“S’good!” Jazz praised. She snatched the knife back away from Prowl to easily kill hers. She bit into it as she sheathed the knife.

It felt a bit strange, bringing the nijan so close to her face when she knew how its claws could hurt when it was alive, but Prowl didn’t hesitate. She brought the hole up to her lips and drank, being as careful as she could not to spill any of the energon. Sealing her mouth over it kept it from leaking as the catamaran went over a wave. Prowl worked out a way to block the hole between swallows and felt rather proud of herself by the time there was nothing left in it.

“Good,” Jazz purred, right next to her audio. Suddenly _far_ too close, Jazz’s EM field flickered with _desire._

Prowl jerked away at first, startled, then remembered she _had_ agreed to let Jazz indulge in her arousing touches… The empty nijan slipped from suddenly limp fingers as heat blossomed in her lines, spreading out across her neural net from the anticipation alone. What was Jazz going to do? How was she going to touch her?

It seemed that, with permission granted, without having to steal her touches, Jazz didn’t quite know where to start either. Slowly, like she was ready to pull back at the first protest, Jazz ran her claws gently over Prowl’s chest seam. Prowl pulled her plating down tight and turned slightly so Jazz’s fingers trailed across her chest toward her side, but she didn’t pull back this time. She wasn’t comfortable with that, but Jazz had done other things before… things that felt so good… maybe she would do them again?

“Whaddaya want me t’do?” Jazz whispered. “Whaddaya want me t’touch? Tell me.”

“I… I don’t know.” Prowl didn’t know what would feel good, other than what Jazz had already done. “No chest touches, please, but… other than that…” She turned her head to meet Jazz’s optic band, a little confused and almost frightened, but also determined. “What should I do?”

“I like chest touches,” the warrior said teasingly, even as she moved her hands away from Prowl’s. Claws fluttered over Prowl’s sides, looking for gaps to touch and stroke. “But y’don’t have’ta do anything. Shouldn’t actually. I gotta stay aware’a things so we don’t wreck th’kattumaram.” She shifted to straddle Prowl’s legs, so that their chests pressed together. Prowl squirmed — in arousal or protest, she wasn’t sure. Jazz must not have been sure either because she was quick to reassure, “Coo~rru… Ain’t gonna try’n merge. Just wanna be able to,” she reached around Prowl’s head and, fingers gently resting against her helm, pressed their mouths together in the deepest kiss yet.

It was _electrifying._

Prowl let her optics flicker off, focusing on the sensation. The way Jazz cradled her head, guiding her just enough so their lips could meet more easily felt so comfortable and natural that she relaxed into it almost without being aware of doing so. At first she simply let Jazz do what she wanted, pulling them closer together, but something inside built with each passing nanoklik until she couldn’t sit still any longer. Raising her hands to Jazz’s face, Prowl pressed back, actively returning the kiss. Jazz made a sound of pleasure and pressed them impossibly closer, coaxing Prowl’s mouth open with hers, letting her have just a taste of the rust-salt and warm-metal flavor of _Jazz._

Then Jazz pulled away with a whine. Her visor was nearly white and she was panting desperately for air. “Spirits and gods…”

The sound Prowl gasped out when they broke apart was somewhere between a whine and a growl. She needed air too, but _Primus,_ she didn’t want to stop! Optics bright, this time watching Jazz’s reactions, Prowl leaned in for another kiss.

Jazz made another sound of pleasure and let Prowl press their lips together.

This time she didn’t stay long. Jazz fluttered kisses over Prowl’s lips, then up to her chevron. Unable to reciprocate the kisses from that angle, Prowl let her hands drop to Jazz’s shoulders, clinging and kneading whenever Jazz found a particularly sensitive spot. Her doorwings fluttered on her back, the memory of touches there building on the real ones happening now.

Heat and electricity continued to build. Prowl arched against Jazz, inadvertently grinding their chests together. She let out a nervous whine, unsure. It felt good, and her plating hadn’t opened… yet. But what would happen if — when — it did? Jazz had promised they wouldn’t merge…

“Rrruu…” Jazz crooned, the vibration pleasant against the sensors at the center of her chevron, “S’long as it feels good, there ain’t anything wrong. Just enjoy.” She kissed the very tip, taking the sharp point into her — warm! wet! — mouth just for a moment.

“But—” Prowl groaned as Jazz repeated her actions with the other side of her chevron, thoughts temporarily disrupted. “I don’t want t’merge!”

“Ain’t gonna,” the islander assured, wrapping her arms around Prowl’s waist to skate clawed fingertips over the lower edge of her doorwings. “Just wanna touch ya, hold ya, _feel_ yer pleasure… ain’t gonna merge today.”

“But what if I— Ah!” Unable to stop herself, Prowl rubbed her chest against Jazz’s again. That point of contact felt every bit as good as Jazz’s hands on her doorwings and her mouth on her chevron combined! “W-what if it opens?”

“Won’t touch,” came the answering whisper, Jazz’s breath and voice making Prowl gasp. “Not unless y’ask. Won’t merge. Want ta… spirits and gods, Prowl, do I _want_ ta,” Jazz’s engine whined in desire; her hands gently kneaded at the joint’s of Prowl’s doors, “but even if y’ask, I can’t. Not until we’re anchored.”

“Promise?” Because oh, Prowl did _not_ want to stop! If it was really okay, if letting her chest seam part slightly didn’t mean they had to merge, then they could keep touching like this… “Just touching, no sparks?”

“No sparks,” Jazz promised.

“Then touch me!”

Jazz’s engine _roared,_ hot and loud, against her. Her hands were suddenly _there,_ on her chest, stroking the seam. Prowl’s head fell back with a shout of pleasure, the feeling still so new and strange but undeniably _wonderful._ Her fingers curled tightly around Jazz’s shoulders, steadying herself as she shivered with sensation.

“Yess… Just like that…” Jazz said, sounding breathless. She stroked the seam again, claws scraping deeply into the tiny crack. Prowl shuddered, afraid at first that she would try to pry the barely separated plates further apart, then with arousal when all Jazz did was exert the lightest of pressures; enough to feel, but not to force. The only reason those claws were able to sink in deeper was because Prowl let them, her chest seam opening wider for the first time by her will without fear.

It was like flipping a switch. Coherent thought fled along with that last reservation and Prowl became a creature of passion, crying out in Jazz’s arms as heat and electricity sizzled in her lines. She could hear Jazz hum happily against the side of her helm, rocking them together as her fingers kept up their explorations, sparking static lightning in their wake.

This time Prowl knew where the tempest inside her was headed and she fell into it eagerly, letting the charge swirl higher and higher until it overflowed. With one last shout, overload swept through her like a storm of bliss. Prowl rode the waves of pleasure out to the very end, sagging against Jazz when it was over.

Who held her tightly, singing joyously.

Prowl lay still, listening to the song as she cooled back down. It was a beautiful melody, wild and free just like Jazz herself. So much more alive than the court music back home. She imagined the birds overhead were dancing to it, pinwheeling with the notes as the wind carried them up and away over the sea.

“Like yer singin’,” she said when she finally felt up to conversation again. Her chestplates had closed again, latching shut beneath Jazz’s hands. The touch wasn’t arousing now, and was a lot less intimidating… if still rather strange. She had overloaded. They were done. “Y’don’t have’ta keep holdin’ me.”

“Like holding ya. Y’feel so good, just being in m’arms,” the words were incorporated into the song, spilled out with the melody. “Ain’t lettin’ go until I have’ta.”

It did feel nice. That much Prowl didn’t have a problem with. But as they sat together, beautiful as the music and the weather were, Prowl started to feel a bit restless. She wasn’t used to being so idle, and her processor itched for something to puzzle at.

“Can ya show me th’dice game now?” she blurted out, wanting, needing to do _something._ “Please?”

“Sure,” Jazz said. She let go of Prowl reluctantly. “I’ll git th’box, then tack while y’find th’dice y’picked out last night.”

She left Prowl to walk across the deck, to where they wouldn’t accidently drop any dice overboard, on her own. After her first failed attempt to stand, Prowl thought about just crawling, but no. She was not going to let the boat continue to stymie her. Forcing herself past the last lingering weakness from her earlier overload, Prowl got to her feet and walked — slowly, but successfully! — over to where she needed to be. As she settled again near the mast, where they’d been last night, Jazz placed the box next to her then left to turn the boat back towards shore.

During their… diversion, the catamaran had taken them far out to sea, so far Prowl couldn’t see the shore any longer. It was disconcerting to see nothing but water in all directions, and she hoped it would be back within her range of vision soon. Finding the same dice from last night kept her from staring out over the open water and worrying about it. There were so many, both Praxan and Polyhexian, and while in the bright sunlight none of them glowed, the colorful pictures and different materials stood out more. Prowl took her time looking at them all again as she set aside the ones they would need for the game.

Once done attending the boat, Jazz dropped down next to Prowl and cuddled up to her side. “Whaddaya want t’play?”

“Teach me a Polyhexian game,” Prowl requested. “Do we need other dice?” She reached into the box for the odd die with only three pictures that appeared twice on each of its six sides that had caught her optic while she was sorting. “I’ve never seen one like this before.”

“S’fer one’a our storytelling games,” Jazz explained. “When y’roll it, it chooses th’season yer tellin’ th’story in.”

“There’s three seasons?” In Praxus there were only two Polyhexian seasons — trade season, and not-trade season. But Jazz had mentioned three by now, hadn’t she? Harvest, war, and storms. “Which’s which?”

Jazz place the die down in the tray from the box’s lid. The picture depicted was an incredibly detailed image of a kneeling mech being helped to stand by several others. “Harvest,” Jazz said. “That’s right now. All th’tribes come together t’help bring new mechs inta the world.”

“Really? There’s a season fer that?” Praxan hotspots were harvested whenever the new mechs were matured. “Y’only harvest durin’ this season?”

“Yep,” Jazz confirmed.

“Why’s it th’trade season then?” Prowl had never heard of a large number of the Polyhexian visitors to the port town markets being new mechs, which didn’t make sense if this was the only time they harvested. Unless not everyone was needed to teach them, and new mechs simply stayed on the islands. “How come yer not helpin’ with th’harvest?”

“‘M a warrior,” was Jazz’s answer. “Ain’t a need fer warriors t’help with new mechs. If any’a ‘em want t’try t’be warriors too, I’ll let ‘em join m’war party during th’war season. But they gotta learn t’sail before I’ll take ‘em t’raid.” She flipped the die to the next image, of a catamaran filled with mechs, many with oars dipped into the water to carry them swiftly through the sea. Behind it were two more, similar boats.

“Think I can guess what happens in that season.” That would be when most raids happened on Praxan ships. Assuming storm season was as straightforward as the names of the other seasons implied, bad weather would go a long way towards explaining why the number of attacks dropped off at a certain point every vorn. “Whaddaya do when yer not attackin’ merchant ships?”

“Me personally?”

“You, everybody.” Prowl knew what the Polyhexian war season meant to her people, but what did it mean for Polyhexians? “What’s th’war season _fer?”_

“Stockin’ up fer the storm season,” Jazz answered. “Hunters hunt, fishermechs fish, growers tend their crops, and warriors go out t’see what’s to be stolen, found, or won by force. Treasures we keep, t’trade later, but th’fuel’s taken back t’the tribe.”

That was more different kinds of Polyhexians than Prowl had thought there were, even after hypothesizing that they didn’t mine to sustain themselves. The popular laymech’s theory that all the “island barbarians” were warriors who only acted as traders when they weren’t sacking ships was ridiculous. She’d always figured there had to be at least two: miners and warriors. Those assumptions were all based on what she’d read though, on the theory that somewhere out in the islands, Polyhexians must have mining cities like their own. That no longer seemed plausible, but she hadn’t known what to imagine in its place.

“Is everything focused on ridin’ out th’storm season?”

“Not _everything,”_ Jazz purred huskily, stroking Prowl’s chest with her claws.

“Not _now,”_ Prowl huffed, swatting away Jazz’s wandering hand, though she took her meaning. “‘Course it ain’t _all_ about just stayin’ alive.” There was more to life in Praxus than survival too; and in Iacon, and Kaon, and all the other inland nations. But mining energon was _easier_ than food-finding — or so Prowl guessed based on how frequently they were fueling. Mines could produce vast quantities of energon that burned cleanly and efficiently. There were whole classes of Praxans who had nothing to do with fuel production, which freed them to do other tasks. The picture Prowl was drawing of Polyhexian life looked a lot more like everyone was involved, at least some of the time, on a personal level, with finding fuel.

Small wonder their culture looked so primitive if they didn’t have the same resources to dedicate to building, expansion and scholarship that Prowl was used to. But then, their “primitive culture” survived, even thrived, out on the Rust Sea. No mainland nation had ever found a way to cross that barrier. Their civilization stopped where the supply lines from the mines ended. Even a large ship could only carry so much fuel, after all. Energon wouldn’t keep for long sea voyages; it took up space and weight, and was expensive to transport because of that. Any ship that sailed out of Hightower, or any port, had to be guaranteed to make a landing somewhere else with active mines and refineries where they could restock, or the sailors would be trapped, left to starve on some far away shore.

Polyhexians, with their supply lines starting and ending with themselves, their own knowledge, could just keep sailing… sailing… sailing off beyond the sunset…

“Storm season’s worth stockin’ up fer,” Jazz said, and Prowl jumped, having almost forgotten she’d asked a question. “If y’wanna safe port t’go back ta, ya can’t make a habit’a comin’ back with no fuel t’share. Rico and me, we’ve spent th’season alone, out at sea. S’possible. But it’s much better ta have a clan t’come back ta. And a pair’a warriors might be able t’find enough fuel fer themselves, but a clan’s gotta stock up.” She advanced the almost forgotten die to show what Prowl had at first thought was a high mountain, but now could see was an island, jutting out of the sea to pierce the unbroken, lightning laced clouds. Rain lashed the shore, waves crashed, and Prowl could practically hear the great spires of crystal forests in the tiny drawing cracking under the onslaught. “Before th’rains come, the lightning starts. There’re great fires. Firestorms hot enough t’melt everything in their path, that last fer many sunrises, until the rains finally come. Some burn even after that, so hot th’water can’t touch ‘em until they run outta fuel. And when th’rain does come… Some islands,” Jazz said, serious, “it don’t stop raining fer three, four, lunar cycles.”

Prowl looked up at the bright, clear sky above them now to dispel the terrifying images her mind was conjuring of the storm season’s fury. She’d lived through what she’d thought were some pretty severe thunderstorms, even seen a wind twister from a distance once, but she’d never encountered anything like Jazz described. “How’d’ya make it through somethin’ like that on yer own? Just th’two’a ya?” _In a tiny little boat like this?_ Surely storms so severe would rip the simple catamaran to pieces!

Jazz gave her a crooked, mischievous grin, showing off her sharp, elongated canine teeth. “Moana likes fishing cats,” she said.

“Must _really_ like fishing cats,” Prowl said, flipping the die back to the harvest. “Storms like that sound scary.”

“Ain’t smooth sailin’, that’s fer sure.” Jazz stroked Prowl’s plating. Then she reached over to the box that still had the majority of the dice in it. She picked up a handful of the red, Praxan styled plastic dice. “D’ya really not like these ones?” She still sounded mystified by this. “What’s wrong with ‘em?”

“Nothin’s wrong with ‘em,” Prowl replied, a little confused herself. What was so special about — oh. “It’s just there’s lots like that in Praxus, that’s all. These,” she held up her handful of Polyhexian picture-dice, “are what I can’t find anywhere else.” She smiled. “Like the star shell.”

“They’re all th’same color though. None’a those match.” Jazz still sounded confused. “I tried, kept as many as I could, in case I found more and could make sets, but,” still against Prowl, she felt the islander’s shrug with her whole body. “Never did manage t’put together a proper gift.”

That wasn’t the first time Jazz had made a point about colors matching. Maybe that was more important than Prowl realized; she wasn’t, after all, the only one on the catamaran being confronted with another, unfamiliar culture. “I like all’a them,” she insisted. “Even if they don’t match.” Each other, or the other gifts Jazz had given her — almost all of which were predominantly red. “Lots’a stuff in Praxus’s the same. What’s special are th’things that’re different.”

Jazz’s head tilted as she struggled with that idea, then gathered the plastic dice. “I’ll trade these fer somethin’ y’will like then.”

“Y’really don’t have’ta,” Prowl told her. Jazz should save them for whoever she found instead of her, someday.

“Rico’ll think I’m crazy, but if y’don’t like ‘em, then I ain’t got any use fer ‘em,” the islander insisted. “Ain’t gotta use fer the wealth fer myself.”

Prowl didn’t argue. She already knew how successful she’d be at trying to convince Jazz she couldn’t be her mate.

She couldn’t sail with her beyond the horizon.

“How ‘bout ya show me a game with th’others then?” Prowl rattled the Polyhexian dice hopefully. “I wanna see what kinda games ya play.”

“Pick yer favorite five while I tack, then I’ll explain one’a th’simple games, ‘kay?”

Prowl complied as Jazz moved the sail, turning them back towards the sea.

.

.

.

 


	5. Chapter 5

They’d only been driving for a few joors that morning and had at least two more to go before Arcee had said they could stop when Ricochet put on her brakes. 

“Hold up!” Smokescreen shouted ahead, then slowed to come around beside the Polyhexian femme. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“Quiet!” she hissed back, and Smokescreen subsided, taking advantage of the unexpected pause to rest for a moment. If Ricochet wanted quiet, it meant she’d heard — or thought she’d heard — something, not that she was hurt. That had been his first concern after all the gravel they’d driven through earlier; he still had several pieces lodged in his undercarriage, all in non-harmful but  _ very  _ aggravating places.

Arcee and her guards wheeling back around and pulling to a stop beside them wasn’t exactly quiet, but Smokescreen was quick to explain. “She’s listening for something.” The princess gave an irritated huff, but otherwise refrained from saying anything. She never liked having to stop for Ricochet, but (fortunately) didn’t argue with their guide about the necessity anymore.

With everyone’s engines finally quieted, Smokescreen tried to pick out whatever it was that had caught Ricochet’s attention. There were birds calling as they flew back and forth between their crystal nests, the occasional discordant melody from the crystals themselves as the strong sea breeze blew over their tops, and something out beyond the edge of the forest, echoing over the water. He couldn’t quite identify it, but it was almost certainly what they had stopped for.

Ricochet confirmed his guess a few nanokliks later. “‘S Jazz. She’s callin’ on her horn t’see ‘f anyone’s nearby on th’water.”

“Why would she do that?” Smokescreen asked, mystified, while Arcee huffed impatiently for a translation. But really —  _ why _ would anyone being pursued like Jazz knew she was announce her presence like that?

“Dunno fer sure, but she’s callin’ fer anyone with trade goods,” Ricochet answered. “Either she’s low on fuel, or courtin’s goin’ well an’ she’s tryin’ t’ trade fer more gifts t’give her mate.”

Smokescreen was certain Arcee did  _ not _ want to hear that Jazz’s courtship of the princess was “going well”. Just like he was certain that Arcee did not want to know that they’d only found them last time because of the cry one of them had let out during overload.

“Jazz is calling for nearby ships,” he translated for Arcee. “She probably thinks she lost us,” a reasonable assumption, given that going around the peninsula was almost three times the distance the five of them had traveled by going across it, “and Ricochet said she might be low on food and trying to trade for some.”

“Does that mean she’s going to stop to food-find?” Arcee snapped. If Jazz was going to stop soon, then they could find a likely anchor point and set an ambush. Not a moment too soon, from the pursuers’ perspective: they were going to run out of energon this cycle — Ricochet had already run out of her own, strange, rations — and they were going to need to slow their own pace to find fuel for themselves.

“Already has,” was Ricochet’s answer when Smokescreen translated the question. She’d dumped her things out of her altmode and transformed to look out over the waves and though he’d seen her without all the things she insisted on carrying herself whenever they’d stopped, Smokescreen still thought she looked weird without her jewelry. 

Ricochet obviously agreed, because she immediately started putting the adornments back on. “There’s a small group’a islands out there; she’s probably already anchored there t’rest. I can just barely see ‘em.”

Smokescreen dumped his own cargo on the ground, ignoring Arcee’s complaint, and transformed to look out himself. He couldn’t see any islands through the morning haze. “How far?” Arcee would want to know if they could swim out there.

“About two sun marks’ sailing,” was Ricochet’s guess. “In this wind.”

That was why Polyhexian expressions of distance didn’t translate to standard Cybertronian measurements: everything was expressed by how long it would take to sail that distance, in the current wind the speaker was experiencing. Since Smokescreen didn’t have even the smallest idea of how far a ship — much less a Polyhexian catamaran — could sail in a (already imprecise) sun mark in this or any other wind, it wasn’t something he could translate for Arcee.

“How long would it take t’swim out there?” Smokescreen asked.

Ricochet laughed. “Stupider-than-stupid-Prax ain’t swimmin’ out there. Drown first. I’ll sit here’n watch.” She flicked her claws against Smokescreen’s chest. “We could make a good time’a it.”

“Ain’t gonna sit on th’shore mergin’ while they die.” Otherwise, he had to admit it sounded like a tempting offer.

“Could probably git a few good ones in  _ before _ they die.”

Smokescreen rolled his optics. “If Jazz is callin’, does that mean she’s plannin’ on stayin’ on th’island fer a while?”

Ricochet shrugged. “If we had a kattumaram — or any boat — she wouldn’t. If someone answers her call though, she’ll sail out t’meet ‘em. Come back t’shore further up. If not… by now she knows we ain’t chasin’ her over water at all. Knows we can’t reach ‘er.” She flicked her fingers against Smokescreen’s chest again. “Might stay a while, ‘specially if her mate’s having fun.”

He didn’t need to translate that part. “There’s an island out there,” he told Arcee. “Ricochet believes Jazz has already stopped there to food-find and rest. It’s too far out for us to swim to, and because Jazz knows that, she might stay a while. But if someone answers her call, she’ll sail out to sea to meet up with them and come back to shore at another point.”

“Either way, we’ll be there waiting for her,” Arcee said, grim determination written in every line of her frame as she too transformed. “We should be able to estimate where she plans to make landfall as she approaches.” She squinted out over the water, evidently able to see better than Smokescreen. “We can observe her course and set out to intercept her.”

“Do we camp until she moves then?” Drift asked, still idling in altmode next to his dogs. “How likely is it someone will respond to her call?” 

“A good question. I don’t like sitting here unable to do anything but wait, but it would be a good opportunity to do something about our dwindling supplies.” Arcee turned to Smokescreen. “Can she guess how long Jazz might stay on the island? And,” she added, looking like she knew the answer but couldn’t help asking the question, “is there really no way to swim out to them?”

“How long’ll Jazz stay there?” Smokescreen pointed out to the islands he still couldn’t see. He didn’t bother asking for Ricochet’s evaluation of their swimming capabilities.

Ricochet shrugged again. “‘Til ‘er call is answered, she’s threatened, or ‘er mate wants t’go somewhere else.”

Right. Right now the only thing that could  _ threaten _ Jazz was them, and staying out there rendered them complete non-threats. And if Ricochet didn’t know of anyone likely sailing in the area, there was no telling when or if another Polyhexian ship might happen close enough to hear — and respond to! — Jazz’s call.

“Ricochet doesn’t think anyone could swim out that far without a boat,” Smokescreen paraphrased the earlier conversation about Arcee swimming out to the islands and dying for the Iaconi. “And Jazz will stay on the island until something makes her leave.”

“What if nothing does?” Hot Rod transformed, and Drift followed suit. “Forgive me, Princess, but if there’s no way for us to swim to her, we can hardly compel her to leave the island.” 

“Our presence might still inspire her to take to the sea again,” Drift said.

“That sounds a bit like grasping at straws,” Arcee said, though not in a tone meant to shut him up. “She’s safe out there. Why would she come out where she’s in danger again?”

“Because there’s no challenge in sitting on an island. It affords no opportunities to prove herself to a potential mate.” Now it was Drift who looked to Smokescreen for confirmation. “Assuming I understand the tradition correctly.”

Smokescreen wasn’t sure  _ he _ understood things correctly. “So yer twin’ll hide on that island until th’end’a th’lunar cycle?”

Ricochet bristled. “Of course not!” She snarled. “M’twin is the most stupidly honorable  _ moron _ anywhere! Which one’a ‘em said otherwise?”

“No one thinks Jazz ain’t honorable,” Smokescreen soothed, though Arcee (at least) thought exactly that. “We’re just tryin’ t’figure out if that’s even allowed.”

The femme subsided, somewhat. “Hidin’s allowed.” She smirked. “Especially if she’s more focused on findin’ a safe place fer her and her mate t’play around without interruption.”

Which wasn’t exactly a  _ helpful _ answer. 

“Hiding is allowed,” Smokescreen told Drift and the others. “Settling, even for a short time, on the island already shows Jazz is more focused on the princess than on us.” Smokescreen  _ knew _ the next part was going to piss off Arcee, but it needed to be said. “Jazz is probably going use her current safety as a chance to… impress the princess in other ways. But Ricochet doesn’t think Jazz will wait out the whole lunar cycle there — it would not be honorable.”

“So she might run again once she knows we’re here, even though we can’t reach her,” Drift said, “but only after at least a few cycles.”

Arcee’s hands trembled slightly at her sides, fingers twitching like they itched to grab her sword and lash out at something. She stood still for a moment, her calm, even vents at odds with the tension in her frame before it eased off; not released, but rather pulled back for when her target was no longer out of range. “Then we use those cycles to rest, resupply, and otherwise prepare to resume pursuit at full strength.” Which, for them at least, meant making sure the repairs from their last encounter were holding. “We rotate a watch on the island in case she moves on her own, and if she does not, we announce ourselves and let her know she is not as alone as she thought!”

“Announce  _ how?” _ Hot Rod complained. “By jumping up and down and waving our hands real high?”

“You say that as though you  _ weren’t  _ capable of generating copious amounts of highly visible fire,” Arcee said with a surprising amount of humor. “Actually I was wondering if our guide might not have a solution among the things she’s carrying. Whatever means Jazz is using to signal other ships, I would imagine her twin uses on occasion as well.”

“You  _ do _ realize that all she’s going to say about that is that she’s not allowed,” and doesn’t want, Smokescreen privately thought, “to help you, right?”

“I’m not asking her to signal for us,” Arcee replied, familiar by now with Ricochet’s refusals to do more than the absolute minimum when it came to assisting them. “I ask only that she let us borrow the instrument, if she has one, to signal ourselves.”

Ricochet laughed outright at the suggestion. “Spirits and gods… that’d be hilarious. I’d let ‘er just t’watch!” She patted Smokescreen’s cheek and grinned nastily at Arcee. “But if the stupider-than-stupid-Prax want’s t’signal m’twin, I’ll do it fer ya. Take th’chance t’say m’piece t’the overly honorable moron.”

“…Is that a yes or a no?” Arcee’s expression said she thought it was probably some variation on  _ get fragged,  _ which was honestly what Smokescreen had expected Ricochet to say. Her offer to not only let Arcee attempt to signal, but to do so  _ for  _ her, shocked him.

“Actually.” Smokescreen coughed. “She’s willing to call Jazz herself. I think she’s been refraining from doing so before now since it could be considered hindering our efforts, but if you want Jazz to know you’re here, she reminds me that she did have her own reasons for pursuing her twin.” Those reasons being expressing her extremely mixed feelings about Jazz’s impulsive decision to take her mate in the first place. Was the signal horn precise enough to convey that?

“Three sunrises,” Ricochet interjected.

“Though she intends to give Jazz time to rest, resupply,” and seduce the princess, Smokescreen didn’t add, “and won’t call for three cycles. If you wish to implement your plan before then, she may be willing to lend us the instrument.” So she can laugh at us, he also didn’t say.

Smokescreen saw Hot Rod and Drift exchange a glance behind Arcee, but neither mech said anything. Good bet they weren’t very confident in their chances of success with a Polyhexian instrument; Arcee’s guards were much more willing to accept Ricochet’s assessments of their skills than she was. 

In fact, it looked a lot like they were exchanging a silent “Not it!” 

“Tell her I appreciate it,” Arcee said, oblivious to what was going on behind her back. “If Jazz does not move before two cycles have passed, we will assess our readiness then and either request use of the instrument, or wait until the third cycle.”

“So since they ain’t gonna drown tryin’ t’swim out there,” Ricochet said after Smokescreen let her know the plan, leaning against him and mouth-touching his collar strut, right above his chest-seam, “how about that good time? Take th’time t’find ALL yer touchy spots this time…” She smirked.

Oh frag yes… Only, maybe he’d vote for a nap first. As much fun as it would be to play games of passion, Smokescreen wasn’t sure he had the energy. Nor, for that matter, did Ricochet, whatever she said. He could feel the slight tremors in her frame from exhaustion where she leaned against him, and the edges of her field control were fraying. If either of them managed to last all the way to a merge, it would knock them completely unconscious — and not in a fun way.

“Maybe when I ain’t so easy t’knock over,” he said carefully, not wanting to imply that Ricochet wasn’t perfectly capable despite knowing better. The warrior did  _ not  _ like to admit to weakness of any kind, especially in front of the Iaconi members of their party.  _ “Driving  _ like this ain’t somethin’ a mech like me trains fer,” like Arcee, Drift, and Hot Rod had, or, his words hinted, like Ricochet. She wasn’t the same kind or warrior they were, but she  _ was  _ a warrior; he was just a civilian. “I’m so tired right now y’could prob’ly drop me with a koekoea feather.”

“Poor mech,” she cooed, though that fraying field control betrayed her relief. “Should take a nap,  _ then _ I git ta ravish ya.” She nibbled on his collar strut, the strange, alien touch of her fangs making his entire neural net go  _ yes, that, now! _

Fortunately she pulled away before Smokescreen’s reactions betrayed his (only slightly untrue) falsehood about how tired he was. She surveyed the beach for a moment, then picked a spot to start digging.

At first he thought she might be digging for those shelled creatures she ate, but no. She excavated a much larger hole. She dug one side down and built the other side up, for reasons he couldn’t imagine. 

“Tell the stupid-not-Prax t’stay above the high tide line when they make camp,” she called mockingly as she put the finishing touches on her… hole. Kneeling at the bottom, she held her hand out in invitation to Smokescreen.

The others had already started looking for places to settle, discussing who should take the first watch and largely ignoring Smokescreen and Ricochet (as they tended to do when she started getting “touchy” and there was no further need for conversation). Smokescreen whistled shortly for their attention. “A friendly reminder to stay above the high tide line when making camp,” he said once all three pairs of optics had turned to him. “Washing out to sea is a poor way to wake up.”

“Agreed!” Hot Rod said with an easy laugh, having made that very mistake earlier in their journey. Luckily one of the Praxans had roused him just before the waves had. Smokescreen had made the same mistake as well and hadn’t noticed at the time. The only reason he hadn’t shared Hot Rod’s fate was because he’d been on watch when the tide had come in. Ricochet  _ had _ noticed and refused to sleep cuddled with him in his chosen spot — which really should have been his first clue something was wrong. She had been planning to let the sea startle him to teach him a lesson before hauling him up the shore, if necessary. Smokescreen had to admit he still couldn’t always tell where the tide lines were, but he’d learned his lesson about choosing his own recharge spots, at least. 

After that, Ricochet and Smokescreen had slept closer to the sea than anyone else was willing to get. But this was the first time Ricochet had dug a  _ hole. _

“Not like I’d doubt ya after all this time,” he said, taking her hand with complete confidence, “but why’re we in a hole?”

“Sun’ll keep us nice an’ warm,” she purred, arranging them cuddled together in the hole. “Too warm. Sand at th’ bottom’ll keep us cool. And we can pack it around us fer support.  _ Much _ nicer than tryin’ t’sleep on the flat ground,” she snickered at the Iaconi, who were doing just that, laying out their bedding on top of the sand further up the beach. Hot Rod was apparently on watch, and Arcee still refused to sleep with either of her guards. He had to admit it didn’t look comfortable.

The sand itched, but not as much as Smokescreen thought it would, and Ricochet did pack it around them for a custom fit. Especially on his doorwings, which even most Praxan made beds didn’t offer adequate support for.

“‘S comfy,” he sighed, relaxing into the somewhat odd accommodations. Most of the gravel that had been giving him so much trouble had fallen out when he transformed, but there was still one piece digging into his hip joint. “‘Cept fer this rock!” he complained, shifting to try to dislodge it. “Can y’reach it? Please?”

“Sure,” Ricochet said. Her claws skimmed over his joint, searching. It would have been erotic if she hadn’t been so sleepy. As it was, the complete lack of arousal in her EM field kept him from responding to claws dipping into the gap in his plating there. 

Smokescreen wasn’t consciously keeping a list of what Polyhexians used their claws for, but after seeing the grievous wounds Jazz had inflicted on Arcee, Drift and Hot Rod with just her claws he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Apparently claws were good for  _ grooming _ as well as being weapons, because Ricochet’s reached the rock and pulled it free effortlessly, absently flicking it out of their sandy hole.

“Thanks,” he murmured against her plating, much more comfortable. He’d be able to recharge, and recharge well, now. She was right about the sun and sand together keeping the temperature pleasant. For the first time in cycles, he was going to recharge comfortably and for as long as he needed.

Ricochet was already asleep.

.

.

.

Jazz’s weight was on top of her again when Prowl woke up. She vaguely remembered being put to bed as Jazz found a place to anchor the catamaran. She must not have slept long this time; while Jazz had exhausted herself sailing day and night, Prowl had been sleeping more than she normally would. Usually her late nights were followed by early mornings, woken by the servants to attend her duties as Princess — the first of which each cycle was to take breakfast with the king, or more recently with Arcee (though in the interest of not annoying each other, Arcee was less insistant) — but Jazz didn’t keep her on a schedule. So even though it was not yet dawn, and she couldn’t have slept more than a few joors last night, she felt wide awake now.

Absently she stroked Jazz’s plating where her hands rested on the warrior’s back and in doing so noticed something else: her hands weren’t bound. No ropes! No gag!

She was, however, she noted after her moment of excitement had passed, still tethered to the mast by the harness.

So. Pinned and tethered, but not tied. Why? Was Jazz that confident she would wake and be able to stop her if she tried anything? Or were they anchored somewhere there was no place to escape to, like the overhanging cliff?

Sitting up wasn’t enough to wake the exhausted warrior clinging to her plating. Jazz snuggled closer as Prowl shifted, but otherwise didn’t stir. Prowl tugged the blanket back up from where it had slid and looked around, taking stock of their location. What she saw surprised her. They were close to the shore; closer than Jazz had ever anchored before. It looked like they were in a small cove, surrounded on three sides by beach that gave way to rocky slopes and crystal growths further inland. The grade was steep in some places, but not everywhere, and Prowl spotted at least three paths she might try after the short swim — or instantaneous Shadow Jump — it would take to reach the sand.

It was too easy. There  _ had  _ to be a catch.

But she couldn’t not try.

Preferring to save the one powerful spell from her ring if she could, Prowl tried to shift Jazz off of her so she could do something about the rope attaching her harness to the mast.

Easier conceived than accomplished. Jazz clung to her like the conical-shelled keong had to the cave walls. Even too exhausted for Prowl’s gentle efforts to wake her entirely, when Prowl started to make progress, Jazz would make a sleepy noise of satisfaction and reposition so she was clinging again. In the end, the best Prowl could do was get Jazz off her chest. She still lay on the sleeping pad, head pillowed in her lap and pinning her legs in place while her arms wrapped securely around her waist.

She’d somehow have to get out of that grip when she escaped the catamaran, but for right now it was enough that she could reach the harness.

The knots she encountered were just as complex as the ones Jazz had tied the sarong with — moreso! It didn’t help that she couldn’t see them and was forced to work at an awkward angle because they were behind her, either. Jazz stayed blissfully asleep through her increasingly frustrated efforts, but otherwise she was having no luck at all. 

Finally, when she thought she had at last managed to loosen a knot only to have it tangle again when she pulled on the rope, Prowl gave up. Focusing on her ring, Prowl scanned the shore for a suitable shadow, said the words, and jumped. The ropes, attached as they were to a large, untransportable object (the catamaran) were left behind, as was Jazz. The bindings Jazz usually put only on her wrists couldn’t be escaped so easily, but since she had neglected to tie them, Prowl was free to begin scrambling up the rocks immediately.

Not a moment too soon, since Jazz had  _ not  _ stayed asleep through Prowl disappearing from right beneath her. Prowl heard the splash of Jazz diving into the water to follow.

She was tempted to cast her Unseen Servant to lay a false trail, once she scrambled into the short crystalline growths that grew just out of range of the highest waves, but she couldn’t. She had left her bag with all its spell components behind. Nor, when she thought about it, would it do any good: the Servant could only travel a short distance away from Prowl herself, limiting its usefulness in laying false trails, and since Prowl still did not know what sense beyond sight Jazz had used to track her last time she did not know if the Servant could emulate it. She put the thought out of her mind and began climbing the rocks, trusting the hard ground would conceal her trail better than the soft sands she’d run through last time.

The calls of various seabirds intensified as she climbed. Their angry cacophony filled her audios, drowning out all other sounds. She glanced back and didn’t see Jazz.

Prowl knew better than to believe that meant she wasn’t there. She hoped Jazz would have better sense than to throw the bolas at her now. Tangling her legs together would make her lose her increasingly shaky grip on the rocks and fall. Fighting the sarong was difficult enough. The plastic fibers didn’t catch or snag, but the garment did its best to twine around her legs, hindering her movement.

Finally, after breems of climbing and not seeing Jazz in pursuit, Prowl ran out of rock to climb. The sun had risen as she crested the rock-hill… and saw the reason for Jazz’s “carelessness”: they weren’t anchored to the mainland at all, but to an island. 

The rocks she’d been climbing dropped off sharply into a cliff filled with birds’ nests that ultimately plunged into the waves below. She stood up to see beyond the short, wind-twisted crystals and from this vantage saw water in all directions. There were three more, smaller, islands nearby enough to swim too, but land — the actual  _ mainland _ — was so far away it was merely a shadow on the horizon. 

A joor after sunrise, Jazz silently climbed up to sit next to Prowl on the crest of the hill. “T’was a good try,” she said, happily. She held out a kelapa ball and offered it to Prowl. “Hungry?”

“Knew there had’ta be a catch,” Prowl huffed, but didn’t turn down the fuel. She reached out for the candy and nibbled at it gratefully. “Weren’t nowhere I could go and ya knew it.”

“Ain’t even many Polyhexians who could swim that,” Jazz gestured to shadow of the mainland. “Few. We got stories’a mechs swimmin’ from island t’island, but outside’a legend… no. Weren’t nowhere fer ya t’go. Thought you’d appreciate wakin’ up without th’ropes though.”

“Did,” Prowl admitted. It was much more pleasant to wake up without the restraints. “‘S that somethin’ yer able ta swim?”

Jazz shrugged. “Eh. Could’a tried. Maybe at high tide, when the current would be doin’ some’a th’work, I’d make it. Doubt I could run after a swim like that though.”

Since Prowl knew she wouldn’t make it even a fraction of the distance before being pulled under the waves and drowning, that still sounded impressive to her. “Guess it’s good ya don’t need’ta,” she said, finishing the kelapa ball and looking out over the sea. There was no way Arcee or any of the others would be swimming that distance, that was for sure. Assuming they spotted the islands at all.

If Jazz decided to stay, maybe she ought to send up more fireworks tomorrow.

“So,” Jazz said, handing Prowl a second crystal hard ball of the kelapa, “y’gonna finish these, or d’ya want m’ta git us somethin’ else t’eat? Told ya I’d fetch a sharkticon fer ya t’look at once we stopped, right? Carcharhinidae won’t mind us eatin’ one, I promise.”

Despite herself, Prowl  _ was _ curious, even if she thought Jazz was crazy for offering to fetch her a sea monster. And that reminded her of the  _ other _ thing Jazz had promised to do once they stopped. “Y’were also gonna buff m’plating, so I wasn’t all scratches and weeds,” she said pointedly. In the three cycles of constant sailing, most of the bandages over her scratches had come off and Jazz had tossed the used rubbery weeds into the sea. A lot of Jazz’s had come off too, except over the most serious injuries. Prowl still couldn’t look at the sickening depression where Jazz’s tire should have been, even if the injury didn’t seem to bother Jazz. Just the  _ thought _ of being crippled like that, unable to drive…

“Did!” Jazz answered excitedly. “Will! Th’gods themselves’ll be jealous.”

The climb down was much more pleasant. Without the need to hurry or the frantic worries about being caught, Prowl found herself curious about the crystals they passed. Jazz didn’t have names for more than a few of them and they paused several times so Prowl could take cuttings. If she got back to Praxus before they died, she’d try and cultivate and identify them. While she waited for Prowl to finish, the islander played a loud, undulating song on the large shell she carried. Prowl hadn’t even known that  _ was _ something that could make music! Jazz let her poke and prod and even try and play a note on it — something she failed utterly at — but then continued to play herself as they hiked down the hill.

Back at the waterline, Jazz settled her next to a large pool of seawater that had been caught in the rocks as the tide receded. She looked over the pool critically, then, satisfied, she smiled at Prowl. She untied the pouch around her waist, where Prowl’s crystal samples were, and left it next to Prowl. “I’ll bring back th’sharkticon an’ release it in here so y’can see it. Most’a ‘em need t’keep swimming or they die, so this is th’best way fer y’ta git a good look.”

“Y’don’t—” Prowl protested, but Jazz was already gone, running to the edge of the rocks and diving with an elaborate summersault into the water below. With a huff she settled back onto the rocks to wait.

The rocks weren’t empty as she looked around. Prowl saw thick mats of midye clustered into colonies. Keong clamped down everywhere. Slimy rubbery weeds grew in thick, limp clumps. And much, much more! And the pool of reddish water itself! The one Jazz had put her next to might have been the largest, but every crack in the rock had water in it, and where there was more than a handful of water, those pools were stuffed full of strange, fascinating things!

Bright red star-shaped things with bumpy armor clung to the rocks and bent and warped their arms so they stayed below the surface of the still water. Green things like a short, central trunk with hundreds of short tentacles radiating from the top to wave aimlessly in the water were clustered together almost as tightly as the midye colonies. Purple balls of spines had burrowed right into the rock. In the pool’s depths, Prowl even saw tiny nijan crawling around among the bleached midye shells that littered the bottom of the pool. And so much more!

Mindful of the possibility that the creature might not be able to survive long out of the water — a good hypothesis given how it had scrunched its arms down to remain under the surface — Prowl gently pried one of the star-shaped things from the rocks. It was harder than she thought it should have been; it was surprisingly strong! She held the thing in her hand and gently touched the plating. It was bumpy and hard and not quite metal. Some sort of rubber composite? Or something else entirely?

What was it  _ called? _

She didn’t want to kill it though, so she put her hand back under the surface of the water to release it. It didn’t swim away. In fact, it didn’t seem like it had moved at all. Was it a thing like the midye that spent its life anchored, unmoving, to the rocks? She didn’t want it anchored to her, so she tried pushing it off her hand. 

Oh! It was stuck!  _ Just _ like it had been to the rock!

This time when she pried it off, she flipped it over to look at its underside. Suction cups! It held on with thousands of tiny suction cups! She’d never even  _ heard _ of such a thing! And now, looking closely, she could see little… tendrils with suction cups on the ends of its arms sticking out and waving in the air, looking for a new place to anchor. Prowl felt absolutely giddy when she released it back into the pool of water. She made sure all its tiny suction cups were down on the shells and sand at the bottom of the pool, and she watched,  _ absolutely fascinated, _ as it moved, very slowly, across the debris. Wow!

And that was just  _ one _ of the many, many things in the pool to look at! This time she barely even noticed how long it was taking Jazz to come back. 

She wanted to look at one of the tiny nijan next, but they were too quick for her to catch, and eventually the bright colors of the tentacle-trunk things and the spike-balls proved too much a temptation. She reached for one of the bright green tentacles.

“OW!”

She snatched her hand away. That had  _ hurt! _

She cried as she looked over the wound. There was only a small welt, but her whole hand  _ burned _ like someone was pouring melted lead over it. Poison? Like the whai? Jazz had said that could kill! 

She clutched her hand to her chest and wrapped her other hand around the tiny wound. What should she do? Where was Jazz? She whimpered in pain and fear.

Jazz hauled herself up onto the rock — empty handed — a moment later and came right over to her. Gently she took Prowl’s cradled hand and checked it. Trembling, Prowl let her, hoping she’d be able to  _ do _ something. She didn’t want to die!

_ “Coo~rru,” _ Jazz said comfortingly. “S’just a little sting, from one’a th’green ones, right?” Prowl nodded, crying. “Then ya’ll be fine. They hurt fer a few sun marks, but ain’t gonna injure or kill unless y’git a whole mess’a ‘em stingin’ ya.”

“R-really?” That made her feel a little better (mentally; physically her hand still  _ hurt!),  _ but she still wished Jazz had said something about the stings! She nearly asked her why she hadn’t warned her, then remembered the way she’d let her experiment and figure out how to do things for herself on the tiny beach beneath the cliff. She’d been pleased about being trusted with that level of independence then! She hadn’t considered the flipside of that independence. Or the consequences of having a teacher who didn’t drone on for cycles of lectures before she was allowed to try something new and potentially dangerous. “What if I’d found somethin’ that would’a killed me?”

“I checked, didn’t see anything,” Jazz assured. “And there’re medicines. We keep ‘em on th’kattumaram.”

That put a better complexion on things. “Good,” Prowl said, cradling her hand again. If the occasional sting was the price she had to pay for a more hands-off teaching approach, on the whole, it was worth it. As long as Jazz didn’t mean to let her curiosity take her too far. “Ain’t like I can tell what’ll hurt short’a touchin’ it.” Or… could she? “There anything the same with all’a th’poisonous ones?”

“All humenga sting. Some’re barely noticable an’ y’can pick ‘em up with no problems,” Jazz explained, gently stroking Prowl’s hand. “Others’re so poisonous y’need medicine right away. And short’a just seeing an’ askin’ about each one, there ain’t a way t’tell. But yer not gonna poke ones y’don’t know now, are ya?”

“Don’t  _ think  _ so,” Prowl snorted, having no intentions of repeating that mistake. Especially when Jazz had no problems answering her questions, even if she didn’t volunteer everything  _ until  _ she was asked. She decided to take this not just as a lesson on humenga, but as an (obviously needed) warning to be cautious. “So? What’re th’purple ones? How bad d’they sting?”

“Kina, and these common purple ones ain’t bad. Make y’sick in yer tank fer a few sun marks.” Jazz grinned. “Again, some ain’t poison at all and others can kill. With these, brighter colors, longer spines, mean more danger. Actually,” Jazz said thoughtfully, “that’s a good thing t’keep in mind fer everything. If it ain’t tryin’ t’hide, it’s cuz it ain’t worried about other things tryin’ t’eat it. Might not be poison until y’try t’eat it, but a lotta ‘em sting too. Ain’t an absolute truth; lotta dull lookin’ things’re dangerous and some bright ones,” she flicked her fingers against one of the nearby star-things, “are harmless. Kina’re good t’eat though! Just gotta be careful catchin’ ‘em. Y’wanna try?”

“I’ll try eatin’ one,” Prowl said, not about to stick her only uninjured hand right in after something Jazz had just warned her could make her feel sick if she grabbed it wrong. “Rather watch ya catch a few ‘fore I try it.”

Jazz’s smile was sweet. “Caution ain’t cowardice. Kokako never learned that. He’s an inspiration, fer without that curiosity, we wouldn’t know what’s safe and what’s not, but ‘is tales’re warnings too.” She got up and paced around the pool, examining each of the kina she could see. She pointed. “Don’t try an’ grab one in their holes. They hold on tight an’ are ready t’sting.” She pointed again, this time at one that was clinging to a clump of rubber weed. “Easiest just t’pick one that’s holding onta those.” With a smooth motion, she reached into the pool and pulled the clump of weed out, bringing several kina with it. 

She put it down between her and Prowl and drew out the long, curved knife she used for butchering the nijan. Without picking up the kina, she thrust the knife right through its spines and into its center. Prowl heard a shell break. With a twist, the two halves of the kina fell away from each other.

Jazz picked up one of the kina halves gingerly. “Th’spines can still sting. We sometimes save ‘em, t’use fer hunting bigger things later.” She dug her fingers into the squishy, bright orange… substance that was the creature inside, scraped it from the inside of the shell, then offered her fingers to Prowl.

Prowl wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been that. “Ya use these things t’hunt bigger things? Like sharkticons, maybe?” She reached for Jazz’s hand and looked at the paste, then poked it. Some of the paste stuck to her finger. Not AT ALL what she’d been expecting; something closer to the midye or remis maybe, which both had been more cohesive blobs, comparable to energon treats. This was just… paste. “So it don’t come out all in one piece, huh?” 

“Doesn’t.” Jazz confirmed. “Kina’re too squishy; their shells don’t open. And sure, we can tip harpoons with th’spines t’hunt sharkticons, but even if they’re poison, they’re still kinda fragile. Too fragile fer that. Better t’use fer hunting birds and island boar, which go down a little bit easier with just a scratch.” She waited patiently while Prowl investigated the strange fuel she was about to consume.

Prowl tasted the bit on her finger. Tangy and strong and only barely like energon at all. She poked the creature again, trying to see if there was any way she could pick it up. Eventually, Prowl concluded that she couldn’t just pick up the blob and put it in her mouth; she would have to put Jazz’s fingers in her mouth.

The tricky femme had probably planned that from the beginning.

Shifting her grip to Jazz’s wrist, Prowl pulled her hand closer to her mouth. She watched Jazz’s expression as she did so, feeling almost empowered by the anticipation she saw in the warrior’s optic band. Experimentally, she opened her mouth and licked along Jazz’s index finger. Her tongue flicked over the clawed tip, bringing away more of the tangy orange kina paste. Jazz’s visor dimmed as she watched, shuddering so minutely that Prowl only felt the slightest trembles where they touched while her field flickered with the same sort of excitement she felt while making  _ Prowl _ shudder.

Prowl paused, curious. She hadn’t really thought about being the one to instigate the arousing touches Jazz liked to tease her with. Maybe she should start considering it…  _ ow!  _ She winced as her injured hand throbbed in her lap. Maybe not right now.

But later… 

She was still hungry though, and the kina tasted good. Prowl kept licking Jazz’s fingers, focused only on cleaning them, not playing with them. Which didn’t seem to affect what Jazz was feeling. Her tremors and excited flickers continued, but she didn’t try to touch Prowl or otherwise turn it into something other than feeding. When her fingers were clean, she scooped the paste out of the other half of the shell and offered it to Prowl silently, like she was afraid that if she said anything, she’d spook Prowl and make her stop…

Prowl kept going, still not trying to encourage Jazz’s reactions, but observing them with interest all the same. She noted which joints seemed to be the most sensitive, doing her best to avoid them for now, but remembered them for later. Jazz’s hands did seem more sensitive to this than her own were. While Jazz doing this had only really affected Prowl when she’d touched her palm, Jazz’s hands almost had more places that did arouse than didn’t — especially around her claws.

It felt strange to eat this way, to be actively participating like this in Jazz hand-feeding her. Despite her holding back, Prowl wasn’t sure whether Jazz would keep going like this or eventually try something more when her fans hummed to life. Incredible as it was to have caused that reaction, Prowl was too distracted (and sore from the humenga sting) to indulge in that sort of thing at the moment. Rather than keep licking her in a way she seemed to enjoy, Prowl held out her hand for the knife as soon as they finished the first kina. 

“My turn?”

“Sure,” Jazz said easily, handing over the knife. Her fans didn’t click off, and her optic band was overbright as she fearlessly grabbed one of the other kina that had come out of the pool with the weed (and which was trying to crawl, shuffling somehow on its spines, back to the water). Prowl saw one of the spines graze a joint as Jazz put the thing down where it would be easy for Prowl to stab it. “Stab an’ twist,” she instructed, pulling her hand out of the way and shaking it like she was trying to dislodge a minor irritant.

“Sting ain’t as strong as a humenga’s?” she asked, lining the knife up with her own hand well out of the way of the spines. 

“Ain’t as immediate anyway.  _ Ya’ll _ still feel sick fer a few sun marks if it scratches ya like that. Me,” her smile turned rueful, “well, people didn’t think I’d be a kokako fer no reason. I don’t notice th’stings’a th’common ones anymore.”

So it was something one could build up a tolerance to, like some of the things Prowl worked with in her studies. Now was not the time for her to start building up an immunity, however. Not when her lines already burned with one sting. “Do I even wanna know,” she said with a grin, bringing the knife down to pierce the kina and twisting to pop it open, “how many stings that took?”

“Eh?” Jazz’s shrug definitely seemed a bit embarrassed this time. “Probably not. Probably couldn’t tell ya anyway. As a newling, I was like ya: wanted t’touch, pick up, taste, all the things, just t’see what would happen. And horrific burning pain from one kakaru didn’t stop me from going back again to see if I could capture it. Drove Ricochet nuts.”

Prowl giggled. “She ain’t as curious?” That was something Prowl had always struggled to imagine, even though almost everyone around her at home was more content to leave things alone rather than question them.  _ I don’t know _ wasn’t a dead end for her; it was motivation to find out.

Jazz shrugged again. “I just got all the curiosity when our spark split. She’s got all’a our common sense.” She grinned. “I’ll go fetch yer sharkticon now. Yer not gonna poke th’humenga again… not until this sting wears off anyway, and y’know how t’git more kina if these,” she nudged one of the shuffling ones gently, “escape.” She stood and caressed Prowl’s chevron. “Beautiful.”

Her dive into back into the sea was every bit as flashy as the one before.

That… hadn’t been a  _ don’t poke the potentially stinging things in the water. _ That had been a  _ go ahead and do whatever you want now that you know how to be careful. _ The trust and freedom of it still left Prowl breathless.

She was still careful though, using the knife to prod the kina away from the water while she continued to eat them one by one. When one of them managed to topple back into the pool anyway she refrained from grabbing for it, waiting instead to see if it attached itself to another clump of weeds or latched onto the rocks. Some of the others escaped while she watched it, but that was alright. The point of the knife made a good tool for flipping over the trailing ends of the weeds to see where more might be, allowing her to find a safe place to grab a new bunch to pull up.

There were only a few kina on the second bundle of weeds, but Prowl didn’t go for a third when she finished them. She was more interested in seeing what else there was in the pools — this time with a bit more caution. The sting on her hand was fading some compared to when she’d first gotten it, but it was definitely still tender. 

Still using the knife to gently move or prod things she wasn’t sure about touching, Prowl continued to explore. It looked like there might be more than one type of humenga, which she avoided, but there were also several more of the star-shaped creatures of varying sizes and colors. Having already picked one up safely before, she felt confident doing so again (as long as they didn’t move too close to any stinging feelers or spines on the other inhabitants of the pool).

She still couldn’t catch any of the tiny nijan, despite her best efforts. They were just too quick, and seemed to have worked out that hiding beneath the humenga or in crevices in the rock were good ways to evade being caught. How clever of them! What were they hiding from, besides her?

A bird swooping down into a pool beside her answered that question: it flew away with one of the creatures in its beak, little claws waving harmlessly in the air. The bird’s plating was thick enough to withstand the nijan’s attacks, and cracking it against a rock when it landed broke its shell and stopped its struggling. 

Was that how Polyhexians had first learned to eat nijan? From watching the birds — and whatever else — eat them as well? It stood to reason, though if anything ate the humenga they would have been in for a nasty surprise following its example. But live and learn was a philosophy Prowl was quickly beginning to think might apply to more than just Jazz, but to her culture as a whole. Jazz had never mentioned anyone trying to stop her from getting herself stung, bitten, pinched, or whatever while  _ she _ was learning, and Jazz in turn wasn’t trying to stop Prowl.

What a difference from the sheltered, structured, protected life she’d lived in Praxus.

Her stung hand was starting to numb by the time Jazz returned, this time with a fish as long as her arm. She held it securely right behind its head and around the body, pinning its claws to its sides. A tail like a spiked club on a chain lashed frantically, leaving scores on Jazz’s plating. With a proud, “Aka! There!” Jazz released it into the pool. 

Immediately it whirled to snap a mouth full of razor sharp teeth at its captor, but Jazz danced away quickly and those teeth closed on nothing but air. “See?” she said to Prowl, preening. “Nothin’ t’it.”

The terrifyingly vicious little monster didn’t keep trying to go after Jazz and instead started swimming around its new home, exploring. Jazz had said they need to keep swimming constantly or they’d die, right…?

_ “That’s  _ a sharkticon?” Prowl said, awed by the ferocity and natural weapons on the thing. Warily she leaned over the pool to watch it investigate the crevices in the rocks. It seemed to be immune to the stings of the other creatures. Would it be interested in eating any of them? Or would it try to leap up out of the water at them? “How’d’ya manage t’catch it without gettin’ bit?!”

“Very carefully,” Jazz grinned. “But I’m a  _ great _ hunter,” she bragged. “Y’wanna closer look at it?”

Did she ever! Prowl nodded vigorously. Jazz had said they attacked mechs in the water, that they could kill. This one looked capable of doing plenty of damage already, and it was supposed to be a small one! “Yer sure this’s little? How big d’they get?”

“‘Bout as long as th’kattumaram,” Jazz said absently, searching the other crevices and pools for something. Prowl struggled to picture one so big. They would be utterly terrifying! She was distracted from her imaginings by Jazz a moment later. With a exclamation of triumph, the warrior scooped a small fish from the water, then another. When she had five, she returned to the big pool. Kneeling close to the edge, she held the struggling fish by the tail just below the surface of the water.

The struggles attracted the sharkticon’s attention immediately. It came over, circling the panicked fish. Softly, Jazz crooned out a song and Prowl watched, amazed, as the monster’s movements slowed and calmed. When it finally lunged for the fish Jazz was offering, it took it from her fingers almost gently, and Jazz ran her fingers down the creature’s back like it was a favored pet. 

“Y’can come closer now,” Jazz said softly, singing the words so as not to interrupt her song, as she tended to do. “‘E’ll stay calm as long as I’ve got fish t’feed ‘im.”

“That’s amazing,” Prowl breathed, now staring in awe at  _ Jazz. _ “Wow…” As fearsome — and impressive! — as the sharkticon was, Jazz’s complete lack of fear handling it was even more incredible. Prowl had to admire her confidence and skill.

Hoping to emulate that fearlessness, she crawled over to sit beside Jazz at the edge of the pool. With its movements slowed, she was able to get a better look at the sharkticon. Even at this size, it already had wicked claws at the end of its short fin/arms. It had a larger head relative to the size of its body compared to other fish Prowl had seen too. Much of that extra space was given over to row upon row of teeth, which had already done a number on the first fish Jazz had given it.

The top of its body, including the triangular fins sticking up along its back, was the bright gray of healthy metal. Further down its body and limbs it was more of a reddish-purple in coloration, something that probably helped it blend with the rusty sea water to better hunt prey. 

It looked like it might be textured as well. Prowl started to lift her hand, then settled back and looked at Jazz. “Can I touch it too, or’s th’song only work fer ya?”

Jazz lowered the second fish into the water, then grabbed Prowl’s hand with her unoccupied one. She kept their hands hovering just above the surface of the pool until the sharkticon had grabbed the struggling fish, then lowered Prowl’s hand to the water to stroke along its back as it circled away.

It was rough, its plating like extremely fine-grit sandpaper rather than the smooth enamel Prowl was used to when touching the plating of other mechs and femmes. Not that she had much to compare it to when it came to mechanimals either, except Drift’s turbodogs, which also had smooth, enameled armor. The seams between the sharkticon’s armor plates were almost nonexistent. Jazz even held her hand against the creature’s plating long enough to feel the sharp spikes of the club like tail.

“Must’a scratched ya up t’hold it,” Prowl said as she sat back again, looking at Jazz’s side and arm where she’d been carrying it. There were several light abrasions on the surface of her finish from the sharkticon’s plating around the deeper marks left by its tail. She brushed her fingers gently over the damage, smiling at the thought that they could both probably use a good buffing by now. 

Jazz hummed in agreement (and no small amount of pleasure), but concentrated on her song and on keeping the sharkticon calm as she fed it another fish. Prowl moved away from Jazz again to watch it swim the circuit of the pool, noticing that the small bits of fish it dropped were quickly seized upon by all sorts of things that came scuttling out of the rocks for the scraps. The nijan had competition for the windfall in the form of other fish (that wisely darted back into their burrows as soon as they’d grabbed a bite to avoid becoming a meal themselves) and a… what was  _ that? _ It looked sort of like the star creatures, moving along on multiple limbs, but it was much faster and more flexible. It was very quick, and Prowl never would have spotted it if it weren’t for that movement; it blended in so well with the rocks.

“Did ya see that?” she asked Jazz, pointing to the place where it had been before vanishing with a fish fragment. “Th’thing with all’a th‘little arms that was just there. Whaddaya call those?”

“Hmm?” Jazz stopped singing. In response the sharkticon shook off its almost trancelike docility. Jazz gave it another fish, but didn’t try and pet it, and it in turn didn’t try hunting the two femmes at the edges of its pool. Jazz crouched next to Prowl to see where she pointed, and the little thing darted out of hiding to grab another scrap. “Ah.  _ Wheke.” _ She reached into the water (despite the sharkticon still swimming around in it!!!) and gently picked the little thing up. 

Almost in a trance herself, Prowl reached out and let Jazz gently push it into her hand. It was softer, squishier than the stars, though it clung to her plating the same way. The little wheke didn’t have armor so much as a flexible membrane over its internals, allowing it to flow and reshape itself. Poking it gently with a finger made it shy away, crawling on one, two, three… eight arms, each covered in tiny suction cups. Those arms wrapped around her fingers, their ends small enough to curl into her joints, and Prowl held her hand perfectly still to avoid accidentally crushing parts of it.

Jazz’s smile was sweet, as enchanted as Prowl’s, but when Prowl looked up, her optic band was focused on Prowl, not the little wheke in her hand.

“It’s so delicate,” Prowl said, trying to explain her fascination. She’d never seen anything that moved the way it did, almost like liquid made solid enough to flow with purpose. And so tiny! “It’s… cute.” 

“The don’t have any proper plating,” Jazz explained, brushing her finger lightly against the little creature’s head/main body, where its relatively huge optics were. “No hard parts at all. Good t’eat, but not when they’re this tiny. Ain’t enough fuel t’be worth it.” Just as well; this was one creature Prowl wasn’t so curious to taste that she was willing to kill it. “If y’see one this size, but with bright blue markings that seem t’glow even in bright light, don’t touch it, ‘kay? They bite, and can kill in just a few kliks.”

No touching glowing bright blue marked wheke. Got it. “Won’t touch,” Prowl promised, though she had no problem touching this one. She brushed her fingers over it, coaxing it up and then back down her hand. It found a gap in the armor at her wrist and started feeling at it, flattening itself like it wanted to crawl inside. “No, no,” she scolded it. “That ain’t a good place fer ya t’be!”

Her reprimand was completely ineffectual, and the wheke continued to squeeze itself into the gap. “Ah! No!” She tried to grab it and pull it back, but her fingers were still numb from the humenga sting and wouldn’t grip properly. “Help!” she squealed, holding her arm out to Jazz. “It’ll hurt itself!”

Jazz tore a piece of fin off the fish she still held, then carelessly tossed the rest of it to the sharkticon. She offered the piece to the little wheke… which flinched, pulling deeper into the crevasse in Prowl’s armor for a moment, but then seemed to realize that was a food scrap, not a predator and came out. It wrapped its tentacles around Jazz’s fingers to pull itself to the scrap, leaving Prowl’s hand behind. Jazz released it (and its prize) back into the pool, before it could get any bright ideas about hiding in  _ her _ armor. “Coo~rru… didn’t hurt it at all.”

“Oh, good,” Prowl breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t wanted to squish it! It would have been a shame to kill it, and she would have had to wash what was left of it out of her wrist — not the most difficult thing to do, but still better avoided in the first place. She looked down at the circling sharkticon making quick work of the last fish. “Will it attack us next?”

“Naw,” Jazz was completely unworried. “We’re too big and neither’a us’re injured. But if we’re not gonna eat ‘im, then I should move ‘im back inta th’sea before th’tide comes in. The waves’ll git rough, and ’e won’t be able t’fight ‘em.” Jazz tilted her head in silent question.

“I dunno…” After watching it swimming around and even getting to pet it, Prowl was feeling a little reluctant to end its life. But she was still hungry — the kina might taste good, but there wasn’t much to them — and Jazz probably was too after going out and catching it in the first place. Plus… If they ate it, maybe she could add some samples from it to her crystal cuttings. “It’s really alright t’eat it?”

“Is. Is also alright if y’don’t wanna. Th’island has plenty t’eat.”

Prowl took another moment to think about it, then decided. “Let’s put it back,” she said, just not comfortable with the thought of eating it. She smiled at Jazz. “Thank ya fer catchin’ it an’ showin’ me a real sea monster.”

“Sharkticons ain’t monsters,” Jazz said with a laugh. “Just mechanimals. Big predators, but not monsters.”

With that, Jazz waded into the big pool of water and made a splash with her hand to attract the sharkticon. It came over, probably expecting more fish. Jazz crooned to it, petting it a few times, then wrapped her arms around it to lift it out of the water.  _ That’s _ when it started to thrash, but Jazz had a good grip on it. 

She bounded gracefully down the rocks to the beach where the catamaran was anchored. Prowl grabbed Jazz’s pouch, with her crystals and Jazz’s other things, and followed.

Jazz waded out waist-deep into the water before releasing the sharkticon, still crooning. Fearlessness didn’t have her sticking around in the water with the now-agitated creature; she danced back onto the beach and waved a jaunty goodbye, thanking it for its help, before practically skipping over to Prowl. “Hungry? Whaddaya want t’eat?”

“Somethin’ filling,” was Prowl’s first thought. Trying so many new things was fun, but it would be nice to have something that didn’t require pausing every mouthful or two to fight with shells. She rarely felt unsatisfied — if anything, Jazz was more prone to press fuel on her when she didn’t need it — but it felt like snacking most of the time, rather than a meal.

“Anything’s filling if y’eat enough’a ‘em,” Jazz pointed out. “But I can check if th’traps caught any nijan, if y’want. Or swim out fer a bigger fish.”

“Pataka?” Prowl asked, remembering the other fish Jazz had caught before her first (failed) escape attempt. She hadn’t gotten to taste it then, but she’d wanted to, and a large fish like that would have enough liquid fuel in its lines to feel comparable to a flavored cube back home. It was part of why she liked the nijan so much, besides the taste: being able to drink instead of chew.

“Okay!” Jazz said exuberantly. “High tide soon. No climbing t’look in pools while th’tide’s comin’ in. Be back with a pataka soon!” She practically bounded into the water, she was so happy at having gotten a request.

Prowl picked her way back up the rocks, watching her step so she didn't fall into any of the pools. Once she found a suitably high perch she stopped to rest and watch the sea come in. Clumps of weeds floated up with the waves, their tops moving with the tide above where they were anchored to the rock. It was pretty to watch, and Prowl might have been tempted to play with the floating fronds… if she didn't know about the spiny surprises hiding among them.

The surf didn't seem overly rough from where she was sitting, but that was another thing she had learned was deceptive. Moving water was a lot more powerful than it looked, capable of pulling back, sideways, and down all at once. Strong as the sharkticon had seemed in the still waters of the pool, it probably would have had difficulty getting back out to sea without being scraped raw over the rocks.

As Prowl was coming to expect, Jazz took a while to find what she was looking for. Since she didn’t want to risk the waves, or wander too far from the shore, to go exploring, she used the time to think about what she was about eat. Drink, hopefully.

She’d been doing a lot of  _ chewing _ since Jazz had taken her. 

It wasn’t like Prowl had  _ never _ chewed her food before. Praxans and other inlanders had always had solid and semi-solid treats that needed to be chewed. But most of the energon Praxans and other mainlanders consumed was served as a liquid. She’d never thought about that before because she hadn’t thought it could be different.

Not so, as Jazz was showing her. Much of what Jazz fed her was solid or semi-solid. The fresh energon from larger creatures like the nijan and pataka was either consumed fresh, or mixed with something else to make it into a transportable and storable solid. And then they ate all of these shelled creatures, which were also solid or semi solid. They chewed their fuel all the time. They had fangs to pierce plating and teeth for doing lots and lots of chewing.

Which posed the question (to Prowl at least): why did  _ she  _ have teeth? Energon treats were optional, a luxury. Praxans didn’t need to consume them. So _ why _ did they have teeth?

To chew?

But since mining energon didn’t require chewing… well, it was a rather bizarre notion, but she was starting to think it was because, perhaps, mainlanders  _ hadn’t _ always mined their energon. 

Had there been a time when  _ Praxans _ had lived like Polyhexians did? When they had gathered fuel from the land and mechanimals around them, able to roam freely wherever they wanted? 

All sorts of things would have been different back then, if that was the case. Prowl didn’t know a great deal about mechanimals on the mainland, but she did know that there weren’t many large ones, and that even smaller ones needed lots of space. There were parts of Praxus that weren’t settled, of course, but comparing that area to the population of the cities, Prowl doubted it would resemble a sustainable ratio. So, had cities been smaller? How much smaller? How differently constructed, since some of the equipment they used to build was powered by mined energon as well?

It felt like discovering a whole new world. Prowl’s area of study outside statescraft had been astronomy and the magic that could be derived from the knowledge of the stars. She’d chosen that focus because it was one of the few places she’d looked and seen mystery, possibilities; now she was seeing those things in the natural world around her.

She still loved the stars though. Shielding her optics, Prowl looked up at the only only star visible during the day, soaking in its warmth. She wished again for her books and telescope, remembering how many stars she could see in the night sky so far away from the city.

Maybe their ancestors had known more about the stars, before the big cities had grown up with all their lights around the mines. What sort of secrets had those mechs and femmes known? What magic had they been capable of before their world had changed?

Could Prowl rediscover the answers and spells that had been lost?

It was a question she could easily torture herself with, so she was grateful when Jazz returned. Proudly, the warrior presented the fish on her harpoon to Prowl. “Yers,” she announced.

This time she didn't have a second fish for herself. “What about you?” Prowl pulled the fish from the harpoon, preparing to use the knife she’d been harvesting kina with to slice into it (since even if her ancestors  _ had  _ eaten food the way Polyhexians did, they either hadn’t shared their fangs or had lost them over the eons). “Aren’t ya hungry too after swimmin’ so much?”

“Sure,” Jazz reached over and stroked Prowl’s chevron. “I’ll just eat th’midye. There’s lots’a ‘em.”

There were at that. Prowl cut into the pataka so she could drink from it, bringing it quickly to her mouth as the fuel welled up around the opening with one hand, then held the knife out to Jazz with the — feeling much more normal! — other. 

She realized she’d cut a bit deeper than she needed to by how fast the fuel was flowing. The first few mouthfuls she had to swallow quickly to keep it from spilling over, before being able to continue at a more leisurely pace. Jazz left her to it, sheathing the long knife and pulling out the short, wide knife she called the twist-pry knife before settling near one of the mats of midye. Using both her claws and the knife, she busily pried the creatures off their anchors, opened them, and ate the fuel inside. Much more quickly than Prowl could have imagined a pile of shells formed next to her.

Then, seemingly bored with the midye, Jazz started crawling around on the surf-battered rocks, prying up all sorts of small creatures for fuel.

“Wh’re vose?” Prowl asked around the pataka, trying to lean over to see the shells Jazz was discarding. They were all sizes and shapes, from flat and conical to the cracked open shells of tiny nijan, to spiral ones like the one on her necklace and others that were different spirals like smaller versions of the large, loud instrument. 

Jazz just shrugged. “Food,” she answered.

“Th’shells good fer anything?” This time Prowl lowered her fish so she could speak clearly. There wasn’t a lot of fuel left in it now. “Y’said yer not good with patterns like on the blanket, but what about jewelry?” Jazz had made the necklace Prowl was wearing, right? “Did’ya make th’necklaces yer wearin’?”

“Can use the shells fer that.” Jazz grinned. “I made mine, yeah. Can also trade ‘em. Can use ‘em fer lots of things. Ain’t throwin’ ‘em away! Y’want me t’show ya how t’make things, I will. But I thought y’wanted me t’buff ya first.”

“Did! Do,” Prowl amended, very much still wanting Jazz to buff her. “Just askin’ cuz they’re there.” And because, since Jazz hadn’t told her that her questions were annoying, Prowl hadn’t bothered holding any back when she thought of them. She hoped that didn’t make Jazz think she was easily distractible or had a poor memory.

Even though, she reminded herself firmly, she shouldn’t be worrying what Jazz thought of her.

“We’ll do jewelry things after, if y’want.” Jazz smiled and reached up to stroke Prowl’s side. “Don’t have anywhere else t’be.”

“Do want,” Prowl said, relaxing at the touch. Jazz’s opinion of her really shouldn’t matter, but she couldn’t help feeling better that she wasn’t annoyed. “Should I save any’a this?” She brandished her mostly-drained pataka. It didn’t look like it would be useful to her for jewelry, but maybe it was. If nothing else, she could tear bits off it to try to lure the wheke out to look at again.

Jazz popped another morsel into her own mouth. “Should finish it. Y’don’t want it?”

“I do.” There was definitely still fuel left in it. She could tell by the way it felt when she moved it. But even tipping her head back and sucking at it didn’t seem to be getting it all. “‘M just… havin’ a little trouble with it.” 

Jazz stood and felt over the fish, squeezing it lightly. She pointed. “Bite— slice here.” She offered the twist-pry knife in her hand.

Prowl followed her advice, and — like magic! — the rest of the fuel came out easily from where it had pooled inside through the second cut. Some of it wound up on her face as she lunged to catch it, and when she finished she looked up at Jazz, wondering if she would kiss her again… wondering if she  _ wanted  _ her to kiss her again… 

Jazz hummed and leaned in, kissing away the fuel. Okay, yes. Prowl hummed back, turning her face to catch Jazz’s lips with hers. She  _ did  _ want her to kiss her again. And Jazz definitely wanted to kiss her again. She let Prowl catch her lips when she deepened the kiss and Prowl went with it, sharing the flavors of the pataka, the midye, all the things Jazz had been eating and most importantly, Jazz herself. 

A wave crashed, drenching them both in wet spray.

Dropping the empty fish into her lap, Prowl brought her hands up to touch Jazz too. She brushed over her side again, reaching up and around where Jazz was bent over her to keep her from pulling away. The fingers of her other hand found one of the short helm protrusions on Jazz’s head and rubbed over it, circling the base before pressing down with her thumb. 

“Ah! Yes!” Jazz’s engine turned over and her fans came on. “Spirits and gods… Yes! Prowl. Do— wait.” Jazz pulled sharply away, breathing heavily.

Wait? Prowl let her hands fall back, confused. She thought Jazz was enjoying the kiss, the touches. Had she done something wrong? “I’m sor—”

“Ain’t nothin’ t’be sorry fer, beautiful,” Jazz interrupted, optic band bright. “We just gotta move away from th’water, and maybe someplace more comfortable than th’rocks.”

“Oh.” That was reasonable. Preferable, even, if they were going to continue… that. And Prowl very much wanted to continue. She wanted to see what other sounds she could get Jazz to make, to find more places that made her react the way her doorwings did when Jazz touched her.

Would Jazz let her… could she get Jazz to overload?

A footnote in her processing tree had her grabbing the pataka to bait creatures in the pools later, but otherwise all Prowl was thinking about as she stood was a good place for them to move to. They could go out to the catamaran, she supposed, but having solid ground beneath her feet was a nice change, and they weren’t too far away from a small overlook. It was one of the places she had taken crystal cuttings on their way down the hill, and Prowl remembered there being clear areas large enough to lay down on.

“C’mon then,” she said, taking Jazz’s hand and pulling her toward the path that would take them there. After reaching down for her harpoon, Jazz followed her willingly. Her engine kept making that enticing rumble as they walked, and Prowl sped up her steps once they were far enough from the water that the uneven rocks were no longer slippery. 

They found a clearing — not the one Prowl had been remembering, but just as good for what she wanted — within a klik. Prowl reached around Jazz, giving her a quick kiss as she took her satchel (now full of shells) to set on top of the pataka so the birds wouldn’t carry it off. The harpoon joined it off to the side, and then Jazz was back fully in Prowl’s arms, optic band so bright it flickered at the edges. 

She guided them to sit. Prowl’s hands rested on Jazz’s hips, stroking seams there just because it made Jazz knead fitfully at the hikurere around Prowl’s shoulders. 

“Whaddya want, beautiful?” Jazz asked breathlessly. “Ya wanna touch? T’be touched? Both?”

“Both, but,” Prowl leaned in for another kiss, this time deepening it herself for one long, torturous moment before drawing back with a gasp, “mostly wanna touch ya.” Because Jazz squirming under her hands was beautiful, the noises coming from her engine and falling from her lips absolutely stunning, and Prowl wanted to see what the pleasure she’d felt looked like on the islander’s face.

“Whatever y’want, beautifu—uaaAH!” She cried out as Prowl’s hands went back to the glowing dots on those helm protrusions. Prowl smiled as Jazz leaned against her and writhed. Those seemed at least as sensitive as her own chevron, possibly as sensitive as her doorwings. “Yes!” she gasped.

Encouraged, Prowl took her time exploring; not just with her fingers, but her mouth as well. Mimicking what Jazz had done along the length of her spine, Prowl kissed up and over the top of Jazz’s helm. She tilted her head so she could reach one of those protrusions and press her lips softly against it, then nibbled gently like she’d felt Jazz do to her. Jazz  _ screeched, _ arching against Prowl, grinding their chests together.

She felt the click and shift as Jazz’s chestplates parted slightly. “‘M not merging,” Prowl said, though she felt as though her gaze was being pulled down by the light spilling from Jazz’s chest. It was brighter than when her own (still firmly closed) plating opened, and even though it was new enough to make her feel a little nervous, she wasn’t afraid. 

“Whatever y’want, beautiful,” Jazz repeated, gasping but this time managing to finish the sentence. “Just couldn’t help it, y’feel soo good.” Her optic band darkened, like she was concentrating, and the crack revealing Jazz’s soul closed slightly, leaving only the thinnest slivers of sparklight. It almost blended in with the blue glow of the paint that outlined the seam itself.

“Long as it feels good there’s nothin’ wrong, right?” Prowl whispered Jazz’s own words against her audio. She wasn’t going to stop if Jazz couldn’t keep from opening her chest — but she also wasn’t prepared to reciprocate that gesture, and didn’t want to lead Jazz on. “Just didn’ want ya t’get the wrong idea.”

“Don’t have’ta merge t’feel good,” Jazz whispered. She cupped her hands around Prowl’s aft, shifting her to straddled across her legs, then in a move that left Prowl dizzy, laid backward and pulled Prowl with her so that Jazz was writhing against the rocks while Prowl knelt over her. “Good?” she asked, running her thumbs over the wide seam between Prowl’s aft and her spinal armor.

“Good!” Prowl gasped, her back lengthening as she arched into the touch. She trailed her hands down Jazz’s arms to her sides, giving as good as she was getting on the seams there. Straddled over Jazz as she was, there was nowhere for the Polyhexian femme to go, though Prowl could feel the tremors in her body against her legs and in the hands still planted firmly on her aft.

There was no question she was heating up, the pleasure and electricity building inside her in a way that was becoming delightfully familiar. It wasn’t as overwhelming this time though. Focusing on Jazz was proving to be a good outlet, and while she wasn’t really sure how close Jazz was getting, she knew she was affecting her.

That knowledge sent charge zinging through Prowl’s frame as surely as Jazz’s fingers did. Jazz was enjoying this, because of Prowl, and Prowl wanted her to  _ keep  _ enjoying it.

Gasping and moaning under Prowl’s touch, Jazz’s chest opened up again, this time giving her a clear view of the spark that pulsed within. Bright, pure sparklight bathed them both in soft blue. “Yes! Prowl! Beautiful…  _ just _ like that… Spirits and gods, Prowl!” The words spilled from Jazz’s mouth like a torrent. Her hands kneaded Prowl’s aft, squeezing and releasing in a way Prowl found extremely pleasant despite — no,  _ because _ of how uncontrolled the gesture was. Jazz had had control over their erotic explorations, now  _ Prowl _ did, and it was intoxicating. “Please, Prowl! Please! Touch me!” she begged.

How could she resist an invitation like that? Though she still hesitated to touch Jazz’s open plating, her hands slowly made their way up Jazz’s body, skirting the sides of her chest and coming to rest just above where her armor parted. She leaned forward over her, stopping when she felt her plating begin to unlatch as well. No. She wasn’t doing that. But Jazz was splayed out beneath her, open and inviting and  _ calling…  _

“Pro~OWL!” Jazz howled.

As delicately as she had ever handled the star shell she’d once had, Prowl finally let one hand slowly drift down towards Jazz’s spark. The brilliant light made it hard to see, and Prowl desperately didn’t want to hurt her — but the sounds she was making suggested what she was feeling was the complete opposite of pain.

Suddenly, with a shriek, Jazz arched up, plunging Prowl’s fingers into the blue corona. She shrieked again, and Prowl saw the lightning dance over her plating and her visor white out… “PROWL!” She cried desperately. “Just a little…”

Prowl bent closer over her, the hand still on Jazz’s shoulder moving back up to stroke her helm while the fingers surrounded by her spark gently swirled the pulsing energy. She could  _ feel  _ not-quite-solid tendrils curling around her fingers, brushing over that sensitive spot on her wrist…!

Jazz screamed, arching up again. Overload didn’t so much flare over her plating as explode out from her spark… then she collapsed to the ground, engine purring. Prowl stared, mesmerized by the look of joy on her face. Jazz looked so completely relaxed and content. Her field sparkled with the afterglow of her overload, and her spark… oh,  _ Primus,  _ her spark… like a star come down from the heavens placed inside a living frame.

Prowl didn’t think she’d ever seen anything so beautiful.

She didn’t even notice that Jazz had moved her hands until she’d slowly, gently placed them to either side of Prowl’s chest seam. Jazz’s smile turned awed and sweet and  _ wanting _ as the claws on her thumbs just barely sank into the open gap. “Y’want,” she whispered, like she was afraid to disturb the peace and sanctity of a temple, “m’ta…” she brushed her thumbs against Prowl’s barely exposed internals. When had her plating opened? Prowl hadn’t even noticed it happening. Jazz telling her she couldn’t help it flashed through her memory, and the words made more sense now. It had been so natural. And the way Jazz had responded… 

“It didn’t hurt?” Prowl whispered, not opening her plating any further… but not closing it either. Jazz had overloaded, but Prowl still felt heat and charge simmering beneath the surface of her armor, a barely banked fire just waiting to be stoked. “Touching won’t hurt?”

“Rru… Prowl, beautiful,” Jazz found her voice. “Is a very vulnerable thing, t’open up and let someone touch yer spark. Someone  _ could _ hurt ya, kill ya, if they wanted to. It’d be very easy, but… Nothin’ about pleasurin’ a partner should  _ ever _ hurt.”

As far as vulnerability went, Prowl had never felt safer with the idea of someone seeing or touching her spark. She trusted Jazz, she realized; trusted her enough to leave herself open to those sometimes-lethal claws. The only thing she didn’t trust her with,  _ couldn’t  _ trust her with, was a merge. They  _ weren’t mates.  _ They couldn’t be, and a merge might not obey what Prowl knew in her processor… 

Not when she was starting to feel something else in her spark… 

And then there was her other fear. Her spark chamber was still sealed, and the idea of having something deep inside her physically  _ break  _ had frightened Prowl when she’d first read about merging and bonding. She didn’t know if Jazz doing only what she’d just done would break the seal or not, but the way her spark had expanded in overload made Prowl worry  _ that  _ would hurt if the crystal was still in the way. 

But she wanted Jazz to touch her! Did she dare give in to that desire? “Even with a sealed crystal?” she heard herself asking, her chest almost beginning to ache with the effort of  _ not  _ opening. 

“Ya’ll feel it break,” Jazz said. Her chest closed slightly as her afterglow dimmed, but not completely. She was still open, vulnerable,  _ calling… _ “Ain’t gonna lie about that. Might hurt, a bit, if y’want me t’do it with m’claws instead’a during a merge. Ricochet did it that way, and she felt a moment’a pain… but only a moment. Said she had only enough time t’notice it before it was the most pleasure she’d ever felt before.”

“No merging,” Prowl said, almost as a reflex. But a short moment of pain followed by the kind of pleasure she’d just witnessed didn’t sound so bad. Certainly nothing like the dry, technical descriptions in her books. And she trusted both that Ricochet wouldn’t have lied to her own twin, and that Jazz wouldn’t lie to her. “I think… I want…” She shuddered, her chest seam opening marginally wider as she sank closer to Jazz, doorwings sticking straight up in the air as she curled over her. “Jazz! Do it, please — touch me!” 

Jazz’s hands went back to her  _ aft _ and Prowl begged again as the islander repositioned them slightly so that Prowl was kneeling across her abdomen instead of straddled over her waist, then took Prowl’s hands and put them on her shoulders. “Brace here,” she murmured. “Lock yer joints so y’don’t fall.”

Even writhing and desperate, Prowl could see how the change in their positions ensured that if she  _ did _ lose control of her arms and fell on Jazz, she wouldn’t fall so their open chests would meet. She was pinning Jazz so that even if the islander arched or strained or opened herself up —  _ called… _ — further, they wouldn’t merge.

And that was the last coherent thought Jazz left her. Prowl’s chest opened easily to Jazz’s claws as though sliced by the pleasure caused by that lightest touch. 

“Ahh!” She cried out, her processor struggling to keep up with the onslaught of new data, new sensations. There was no good way to describe it, other than intense and wonderful and  _ not enough!  _ “Jaaazz, please!” Why was she going so slow?  _ “Please!” _

Jazz’s engine hummed. “Yes. Beautiful… so beautiful…” she crooned. Prowl barely noticed when her chest opened up further again…  _ wanting… calling… _ spilling sparklight over them both. She was too lost in the gentle stroking motions of Jazz’s claws over the sealed crystal. She writhed, trying to get Jazz’s claws to pierce it, like Jazz had gotten her to plunge her fingers into the corona of her spark, but Jazz withdrew her hands, tracing components further way. “So impatient…” Jazz murmured reverently. “Well yer gonna have t’wait a bit. Yer gonna feel nothing but  _ pleasure…” _

“HmNnn!” Prowl whined, unable to articulate that she already  _ was  _ feeling nothing but pleasure. Nothing but pleasure and  _ Jazz,  _ touching her, teasing her, making her spark whirl faster and faster behind its seal. Now it was her fingers kneading at Jazz’s plating, curling and uncurling on her shoulders. A stray wisp of a thought that she would have been scratching Jazz’s paint if she had claws came and went, lost in the deluge of ecstasy pouring into her through Jazz’s fingers.

So  _ great _ was the buildup, the  _ anticipation, _ that when Jazz’s claws finally pierced the crystal, the pain came as a  _ release _ and not a breaking.

Prowl shouted, a wordless cry containing all that she was feeling as pure sound. She couldn’t see past the buildup of electricity in her systems filling her optics with crackling static; or was it her own sparklight spilling out between them that was blinding her? Either way, Prowl didn’t have room left in her head for anything as mundane as vision. 

_ Jazz was touching her spark! _

Claws sank into the corona, which parted and flowed like a liquid… Jazz was talking again, but Prowl couldn’t hear; all she could feel was that Jazz was inside her, cupping and cradling and—

Reaching the limit of what she could stand, Prowl tumbled into overload. She probably screamed again, but if she did, she couldn’t hear it. Her awareness shrank down to her spark and then expanded with it, carried by waves of bliss simultaneously more powerful and more  _ peaceful  _ than her previous overloads. She let them carry her off, consciousness temporarily fading as the intensity drained away.

She came back to awareness to Jazz singing, not bright and loud and joyously, as she had previously on the boat, but a softer, crooning happy melody that vibrated against Prowl’s still-open chestplates. 

They were curled together side by side, Jazz cradled against Prowl’s chest, Prowl reaching down to trail her fingers through the outermost tendrils of light leaking out  _ her _ open chestplating. 

_ They’re so blue… _ she thought. They were, their two sparks nearly the same color and pulsing at nearly exactly the same rhythm.  _ Because of the resonance?  _ There was no way to tell. Prowl had never seen another spark before — hadn’t even seen her own before! — so she couldn’t know if matching this closely was normal or not.

Probability and logic argued that it wasn’t… but Prowl wasn’t interested in reason right now. What was more interesting now was how the touches that had been so arousing and erotic before now just felt soothing and comfortable. What a difference there was, all from a few small changes in intent and execution, and yet none of it was unpleasant. Even the moment Jazz had broken the seal on her spark chamber hadn’t been unpleasant;  _ nothing  _ like she’d been afraid of for so long. The humenga sting had hurt worse, and lasted longer.

Prowl giggled at the thought.

“Hmm?” Jazz asked, the crooning note of her song sounding almost sleepy, or intoxicated.

“Jus’ thinkin’ how much more m’hand hurt than what we just did,” Prowl explained, a little embarrassed but mostly amused by how worried she’d been. “Wish they didn’t make it sound so scary.”

“Yer caretakers were pretty thoughtless t’imply that it would be,” Jazz murmured back, still cuddling the light creeping out of Prowl’s chest like the un-solid substance was the most precious thing in the world. 

“Wasn’t any’a them,” Prowl said, sighing into the touch. None of her advisors, instructors, or the king had ever said anything about interfacing being painful or scary. Of course, that was mostly because they hadn’t really said anything about interfacing, period. “They didn’t talk about it. Found a… somethin’… dunno th’word… pile’a flat things with symbols that ‘splained what’d happen on my bonding night with Arcee.” Which, now that she had practical experience with most of what the book had detailed — and some things that it hadn’t — Prowl could say was one of the least useful books she’d ever read in her life. A clinical description of the physical process of seal breaking, merging, and overloading was a terrible way to learn about them. Extremely misleading, if technically accurate.

“Then someone didn’t git th’shapes right when they carved th’story y’found,” Jazz said. “They should’a been spells’a joy, not fear. Yer caretakers and shamans should’ve seen y’had a bad spell and gotten rid’a it. Ain’t right, t’leave a newlin’ scared’a their own pleasure like that.”

“Wasn’t a spell,” Prowl said, curiosity beginning to burn off her lazy relaxation. Why had Jazz assumed it was a spell? “It was a  _ book,”  _ she said, still unable to come up with a Polyhexian word. Was there even one? “That’s a collection’a symbols that… gather knowledge inta one place.” Put that way, she supposed it did sound like a spell. “Y’can look at ‘em and learn from ‘em like listenin’ ta someone tellin’ ya things, only without anyone else needin’ t’be there.” 

Jazz made a sound of interest. “Not a spell? But yer describin’ a spell, beautiful.”

“Think we might both be sayin’ ‘spell’ and meanin’ two different things,” Prowl said, remembering the misunderstanding they’d had over the word “mate”. Almost reluctantly she sat up, only becoming truly aware that her plating was still open when she pulled away from Jazz. With a short cough of embarrassment she closed her chest, with some difficulty. Laying there together like that had been so nice… “Y’called it a story, but not all  _ books  _ are stories. Sometimes they’re just a bunch’a statements ‘bout one thing.”

“Sure,” Jazz said. “Ain’t sure how a shape can just make a statement. Shapes and statements always have th’spark’a th’maker in them.” She arched her back and stretched, baring her still open chest enticingly to Prowl before she closed her plating and rolled over to her hands knees. Prowl thought she’d get up, but she only readjusted to lay in a different position next to Prowl, cuddling against her again. “Spell or statement… still shouldn’t’ve been left t’a newling with no explanation.”

Wait, did Jazz think she was a— “I’m not a newling,” Prowl blurted out, half amused by the absurdity and half annoyed to have been mistaken for someone so inexperienced. 

“Ain’t?”

“No!” Prowl pulled away from Jazz again, looking down at her incredulously. "What made ya think somethin' like that? I came outta th'ground  _ vorns _ — er, many, many seasons ago!"

“Cuz y’were still sealed,” Jazz said, trying to hug Prowl again, “an’ y’were so hesitant and afraid’a intimacy. Not just sparkmergin’, but all sort’a touch. I’ve seen newlings afraid’a their own reactions like y’are, but curiosity always overcomes that within a season. And y’are so very curious, beautiful. I couldn’t imagine it had been very long at all since ya’d come from the ground if y’were still caught up in that newling’s fear.”

Prowl’s EM field flushed with embarrassment. “Interfacin’ just wasn’t that interestin’ t’me,” she said, this time not trying to scoot out of cuddling range. “‘Specially after that  _ book.”  _ There hadn’t been anyone to talk to about what she’d read, or to try things with to find out that it wasn’t so bad after all. Perhaps she could have found someone if she’d really wanted to, but, “I was more curious ‘bout other things. Like the stars.”

“I saw yer star-drawings,” Jazz said proudly. “Yer gonna be a fantastic navigator when y’finish. So smart!”

“So smart I didn’t do my own research?” In hindsight Prowl could see how obvious it was that she shouldn’t have stopped at a single book. Where else in all her studies had she ever been satisfied with just one source? But when the king had first brought up the possibility of her bonding during the negotiations with Iacon almost ten vorns ago, she’d asked for information on what would be expected of her on her bonding night, and trusted the judgement of the instructor who’d given it to her. She’d read it and taken it as definitive truth without ever looking further or experimenting on her own. She’d never questioned that decision until now, content to let herself be distracted by other, less frightening, things, but there really was no way around the fact that had been a mistake. “Feel silly.”

Jazz tilted her head and tightened her grip around Prowl’s torso. Prowl looked at her and saw incomprehension in her visor, but she also seemed determined to provide comfort. “Ain’t silly,” she insisted in a soft whisper. “Y’ _are_ smart. So smart, so clever… Yer learning everything so fast. Gonna be doin’ all’a yer own food-finding before y’know it. Y’nearly outwitted me in th’forest. Yer a powerful priest-mage, and gonna be a fantastic navigator… a warrior couldn’t ask fer a better mate, beautiful.”

Again with those immediate, sincere compliments. Prowl’s acute embarrassment receded, leaving her able to take the lesson for the learning experience it was and move on. Jazz might not understand the Praxan culture of scholarship where a mistake like that would be held against her credibility in other matters, but she did know how to make her feel better. “Thanks,” Prowl said, hugging back.

Jazz’s engine purred as she pressed her whole body into the hug. She didn’t seem to have any intention of letting Prowl go, which at first was fine. The hug felt good, and the warmth of the other femme cuddled up to her was nice. Soon though, Prowl began feeling restless. 

“Hey.” She tried nudging Jazz to sit up, which was about as effective at dislodging her when she was awake as it had been when she was asleep. “Weren’t’ya gonna buff me sometime today?”

“Sure,” Jazz said easily, though she didn’t give any indication of moving.

“Sometime before th’sun sets?” Prowl prompted, nudging her again.

“Sun ain’t gonna set fer a while. Got plenty’a time.”

Yes, true, but, “I wanna get up.”

That did it. “‘Kay.” Jazz unwrapped her arms from around Prowl and sat back, finally releasing her to move. “Gotta go get th’wax and things from th’kattumaram. You wanna swim out with me, or wait here?”

“I’ll swim out with ya. There’s somethin’ I wanted t’get too.” Prowl stood, dusting off and straightening her twisted sarong. “And I can get th’crystals put away while yer fetchin’ th’other stuff.”

“‘Kay.” Jazz pushed herself to her feet. 

The shoreline had changed quite dramatically since they’d gone up. The sandy cove had almost disappeared under the water, and the waves crashed against rocks much further up than Prowl had thought they’d reach. The swim out to the boat had almost doubled from the relatively short jaunt she’d noted this morning. Jazz didn’t seem perturbed, but Prowl had to stop and stare in astonishment. The tide coming in at Hightower wasn’t anywhere near as dramatic; there was nothing there (that Prowl had seen, anyway) to illustrate just how much the water could rise.

“Wow.” She looked out over the altered seascape, marvelling at how quickly it had happened. 

“Hmm? What’s wrong, beautiful?” Jazz stopped and looked back. 

“Nothin’. Just didn’t realize it’d look so different.”

“‘S th’tides,” Jazz smiled. “Ain’t always that high, but…” she shrugged. Then she turned and bounded the last few steps down to what was left of the sandy beach and into the ocean with no signs of hesitancy.

“Hey, wait fer me!” Prowl collected herself and ran after her, stumbling a little as she entered the water. Knowing the hollows in the rocks that had been individual pools were still there, and that with their homes now covered in water, they were free to wander around, Prowl was leery of stepping on any stinging creatures hidden beneath the water. She did her best to step where she saw unadorned sand under the waves, and as soon as she was far enough out to swim at the surface without touching the ground, she did so.

Jazz was at the catamaran by that point already. Prowl struggled on gamely, hoping Jazz wouldn’t be ready to jump right back in when she finally caught up.

Fortunately Jazz was waiting and reached down to help haul her up onto the deck when she got there. “Ya’ll git better at that too,” she said with a grin. “We’ll take th’board back t’the shore though, since y’look tired.” She caressed Prowl’s hand, gave her a quick kiss, then turned to keep digging through the cargo on the other side of the catamaran.

Prowl took a moment to catch her breath before looking for her satchel to transfer the crystal cuttings to. Wrapped carefully to protect them, she made sure they were secure in one of the interior pockets before looking for the things she had bought from Smokescreen the morning before Jazz had kidnapped her. It felt like a lifetime ago, not just a kilocycle! But the pearls were still there, right where she’d put them, as was the carved tooth necklace. 

Smokescreen hadn’t been able to tell her what the carvings said, but maybe Jazz could. 

She marveled at being able to move freely around the little boat. She had before, true, but while the catamaran was in motion, she hadn’t quite gotten up the courage to actually explore it, even small as it was. Or  _ because _ of how small it was. 

The hull with sleeping pad had that and the blanket for a passenger to sleep on. It was also half-full of cargo and supplies. Prowl knew that, but what drew her attention now was the second hull. She could see where the crate of nijan sat while the boat was in motion, as well as where all the traps would sit when stowed. It was also piled high with cargo, supplies and who knew what else… but there was no sleeping pad to match the one in the other hull! Jazz had said she usually shared this boat with her twin! Where did Ricochet sleep? 

A splash drew her attention and she saw Jazz diving (with her characteristic summersault) into the water. This time though, she didn’t disappear for breems; Prowl saw her treading water right next to the boat. She waved at Prowl, then swam under the catamaran’s deck, between the hulls. Prowl tried to look through the slats, which  _ looked _ like they were just square tubes of oxide-covered aluminum lashed together, but they were actually fitted so well together that there were no gaps for her to see through. She wondered what could be under there. Was Jazz doing some sort of maintenance?

Prowl heard another, larger splash, and a moment later Jazz came out, guiding a long… oval shaped… board. It looked fairly buoyant, floating easily on the surface of the water even with Jazz gripping the side. It was big enough for someone to lay on top of, and Prowl very much hoped that was the idea. Swimming wasn’t her strong suit by a long shot, and while practice might make perfect, she didn’t have much stamina at the moment to practice  _ with.  _

“How’s that work?” she asked, making sure her satchel was closed securely before tying it around her waist. Easier to collect things in her own bag, if Jazz wasn’t going to protest her keeping it due to the remoteness of their location. She wished she’d had something to wrap the drained pataka in, but there really wasn’t much left in it that could make a mess, so in with the spell components it had gone. Luring out more shy rock-dwellers was something she still planned to do later, after the tide was out again. “That fer carryin’ th’wax’n stuff t‘shore?”

“Yep!” Jazz wrapped a loop of rope around one end of the board, which despite its shape didn’t slide right off, and tossed the other end of the rope to Prowl. While Prowl kept the thing from floating away, Jazz hauled herself back up onto the deck. She took the rope and tied it off. “Hungry?”

“A little.” She’d burned off a fair amount of the fuel from the fish with what they’d done afterward. Having something to eat wasn’t a bad idea, and Jazz really  _ should  _ eat something, having had less than Prowl earlier. “Bet yer hungrier’n me.”

“I could eat,” Jazz acknowledged. She dug under the blanket to retrieve the last of the kelapa balls. “Should finish those. Y’wanted t’make jewelry after I buff ya, so the shell should be empty.” Prowl’s hands curled around the fiber-covered shell, and Jazz scampered away to start pulling up nijan traps. Several were full, and two of the creatures were dumped on their backs on the deck while the rest were shoved in with the storage crate for when they next moved. They had a pretty good number of them now, though Prowl knew the traps didn’t always work. 

Content to finish off the kelapa balls, Prowl popped one in her mouth to suck on while Jazz took care of the nijan. Since they were anchored, Jazz went through the extra steps of draining the energon into the shallow bowls made by the creature’s top shell, then offered the first one to Prowl. She grinned. “Y’want?”

“‘M good,” Prowl mumbled around the candy in her mouth, not wanting to mix the flavors. There would be more nijan later, but not likely another kelapa. She wanted to really enjoy it before it was gone.

“‘Kay.” Jazz drank the fuel herself, then stowed the second one in the crate with the others. Then she dropped back down to the deck next to where Prowl was sitting and cuddled up to her side. Prowl could feel the softest vibrations from the islander’s engine, a purr not unlike the ones Jazz had made after overload. 

She presented the flat shell from the nijan she’d just consumed. “Here. Y’wanted t’look at them fer something, right?”

What Prowl had wanted was to compare nijan from different locations to their size, shell color, and other differences to see if she could determine a reason for the slightly different flavors she was tasting. She’d kept the top-shells of the ones she’d consumed during their non-stop sailing so far, though obviously she hadn’t been able to determine their locations of origin. In fact, as she’d now watched Jazz add extras she caught to the storage crate several times, she now knew that sorting out their original locations was an exercise in futility.

But it was thoughtful of Jazz to remember she wanted the shells for some reason — a reason she probably wouldn’t understand even if Prowl had explained — and offer hers. Occasionally Prowl had managed to convince others to bring back experimental materials for her, but only because she was  _ the princess _ and could order them to do so. Jazz was doing it just because Prowl was curious.

Even though she hadn’t eaten the nijan it came from, Prowl took it with a word of thanks and carefully wrapped and tucked it in with the others.

She thought about pushing Jazz away then shrugged and let her stay. They weren’t  _ mates, _ but she supposed Jazz certainly was a lover — her first! — and though she’d never really considered having a lover before, she’d heard stories, mostly by eavesdropping on the palace servants. Touching and holding (especially when there was nothing else they were doing) still felt weird to her, but they were things lovers supposedly did when alone. So Jazz could stay, at least until Prowl finished her candy.

Prowl wondered if Jazz was also feeling restless, because she toyed with the large shell-horn she carried, then lifted it to her lips to play. Relaxing against the mast (and Jazz), Prowl continued to eat slowly, enjoying the melody as the notes rang out over the water, sparkling like the sun on the waves. 

.

.

.

Sitting and watching a tiny island she could barely even see looking for a little boat she  _ hoped _ she’d be able to spot when it moved was both boring and nerve wracking. 

Arcee kept herself awake and occupied thinking about all the things that needed to be done over the next two cycles to get them ready to move again. Energon was their biggest priority. The runners she’d sent back to Hightower to fetch further supplies wouldn’t catch up to them for another four or five cycles, if they drove flat out the whole way. Meanwhile, they’d used the last of their supplies this morning, which meant they needed to restock somehow. They had to survive those cycles until the runners caught up with them; potentially as much as another kilocycle, if Jazz moved again and they had to chase her.

From a logistics point of view, staying here for as long as possible was the most tactically sound decision, but Arcee just couldn’t  _ stand _ sitting here doing nothing while Prowl suffered, her prison in sight while she was entirely unable to reach her or help her in any way. If forcing Jazz to run, to focus on sailing instead of on tormenting her captive, was all Arcee could do for Prowl, then she would do it!

She ignored the staccato whispers from where Smokescreen and Ricochet had decided to rest. They were always talking to each other, the islander harassing the merchant, but instead of asking Arcee to stop her, Smokescreen allowed it. He said he  _ liked  _ it, of all things, but watching the barbarian’s advances only made Arcee look away in disgust. She told herself it was because she was respecting the merchant’s privacy — even if the barbarian would not — but in truth she couldn’t help but imagine sweet, gentle Prowl in his place, fending off unwanted and forceful advances from a crude islander trying to take what didn’t belong to her.

As such, she was ashamed to admit later, she ignored the first moans. It was only when they became too loud to pretend she couldn’t hear them, too obvious what was happening for her to tell herself it was something else, that she finally got up to intervene.

“Smokescreen? Are you alright?” If he needed help pulling Ricochet off him— “Oh!”  _ Primus!  _ The quick glimpse she’d gotten before averting her optics looked more like Ricochet might need help pulling  _ him  _ off of  _ her.  _ “What is going on here?!”

“G’way,” Smokescreen mumbled between moans as Ricochet’s fingers dug into the base of his doorwings. For her part, Ricochet was arched beneath the Praxan, panting while he did… some sort of…  _ mouth thing _ to her open chestplating. At the sound of Arcee’s voice, the femme’s visor flickered on and she smirked right up at the blue femme without shame. 

“Is this— are you sure you’re alright?” Arcee asked, already edging away. “You, ah, don’t need any help?”

“No—AH!” Smokescreen writhed as Ricochet’s deadly claws teased along the sensitive edges of his doors. “No,” he panted. “Go away.” Arcee heard the sound of a second set of chest armor unlatching and the reflections of a second blue spark joined the light coming from the crack in Ricochet’s chest.

She didn’t need to see any more than that! Rapidly retreating from the — apparently consensual — activities in the sand, Arcee returned to the lookout post and tried desperately not to listen. 

It didn’t work very well. There was no way  _ not  _ to hear them now that she knew what was going on, and every sound grated on her already frayed nerve circuits. Why couldn’t they just be quiet? Or better yet, not do it at all! 

“Princess?”

“What?” Arcee snapped at the unexpected voice, then apologized. “I’m sorry Drift. I guess I’m… a little on edge at the moment.”

“Perhaps a walk would do you some good,” he suggested, no sign of offense in his field for the way she’d spoken to him. “I can take the rest of your shift on watch.”

Which would allow her to get far enough away that she wouldn’t have to hear Smokescreen and Ricochet anymore. “Thank you,” she said gratefully, trading places with him. 

“Of course,” he replied simply. “Hot Rod can accompany you if you plan to go very far.”

Sure enough, the other mech was waiting for her when she reached their camp. Hot Rod grinned exuberantly. He never seemed to truly notice others’ bad moods.

He chattered quietly — mostly about magic and the difficulties of combining it with his sword work — while they made their way to the rocks that ringed the large beach nearby. Arcee considered passing them and making her way into the crystal forest, but she didn’t want go very far. She just didn’t want to hear…  _ that. _ So instead she turned to the side to follow the rocks, working her way up the beach.

The roar of the sea was immense, and Arcee felt incredibly small and helpless when faced with it. She was thankful for Hot Rod’s chatter providing a counterpoint and keeping her from dwelling on the overwhelming sound of the sea. Or the thoughts circling in her processor like the truly  _ monstrous  _ creatures that had circled near the mouth of the river after the battle with Jazz. There weren’t any out there now, but they had lingered for quite awhile before. One of the Praxan guards had told her they were drawn to the taste of energon in the water, and they had all been bleeding a lot.

Arcee smoothed over one of the patches on her chest, testing the edges. They’d all healed up remarkably well given the amount of driving they’d been doing. Fortunately none of their injuries had been in places that severely hindered them in altmode. If only Jazz had been driving too! That punctured tire would have been crippling for her if she was relying on her own frame to travel.

At least Prowl was spared the exhaustion of all this driving. The last few cycles had been a test of Arcee’s endurance, and she was much more prepared for it than the Praxan princess. She hated to think what a state her intended would have be in if she’d had to keep up such a gruelling pace.

Drift was sitting peaceably in the sand next to one of his dogs when she returned. The other was standing with its ears perked up next to Ricochet. She was standing facing the island, feet submerged in the surf. Smokescreen lounged nearby, out of reach of the waves. 

Her guard nodded his head in greeting. He didn’t ask if her walk had calmed her; he only moved on, reporting, “Jazz is calling again.”

“So no one has answered her yet.” Arcee didn’t care one way or another about that, but it did mean they had confirmation Jazz and Prowl were still on the island. Personal feelings aside, it was far too soon to harry them off it, however. “At this point I consider that a positive sign. It gives us more time to work out what we can do about our supplies.”

“Of course,” Drift said. “Hunting is our only option. Even turning back — and I certainly do not advocate that — at this point would not help us solve our supply issue. I should take the dogs hunting soon, to get energon for our evening meal.”

Arcee was still reluctant to kill in order to stay fueled, but Drift was right. It really was their only option. “Agreed,” she finally said, permission and order in one. “Do you need anyone else to accompany you?”

Drift’s optics drifted to Ricochet, but, “No, Princess, though I may call for help once the dogs have made a kill.”

“Alright.” Arcee rather doubted Ricochet would have been willing to go with him if he’d asked, so it was just as well he hadn’t. Though speaking of their barbarian guide… “What about you two?” she asked Smokescreen. Her voice was a bit crisp and she knew it, but really! He was Praxan! He should have known to at least take that sort of thing to a more secluded spot, not inflict it on all of them. “Is she still providing for the both of you?”

“For the moment, Princess,” Smokescreen called back without bothering to ask the islander, much more cheerful than he had been… earlier. His voice caught Ricochet’s attention; she chattered to him and he chattered back. Her words took an insistent tone, and his became a bit forceful. In the end she huffed and turned back to the waves. 

“What was that about?” 

Arcee could see Smokescreen silently debate to himself. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate his attempts to mitigate Ricochet’s attitude and crude words, but it often left her wondering just what the barbarian was really saying. Finally, “She wished to observe Drift’s hunting techniques,” he said diplomatically.

“By which I assume she means she wishes to critique his hunting techniques.” As brutally and with as much laughter as possible, no doubt. She’d certainly had her fun at their expense with those sand-dwelling shelled creatures. 

“As long as she doesn’t interfere with the hunt, I really don’t mind,” Drift said, unexpectedly. “Even if the critique is delivered harshly, I can still benefit from knowing where my errors are.”

Hot Rod looked at Drift like he’d slipped a cog in his processor, and Arcee silently agreed with him. But if Drift actually wanted her along then she wouldn’t be  _ here,  _ chattering at Smokescreen or… anything else. “If that is truly amenable to both of you,” Arcee said warily, giving him a chance to back out.

Drift didn’t take it. “I am willing,” he said, then looked to Smokescreen. “Would you ask her if she still wishes to accompany me?”

Ricochet’s answering laugh required no translation. She trotted after Drift cheerfully, no doubt anticipating an amusing show. Smokescreen made a great sigh and started to get up to follow, but Drift gestured for him to stay. “We’ll be fine. I doubt,” he said with a small smile, “she will say anything that requires translation.”

“Probably not,” Smokescreen said gratefully. “And I doubt you want me and my great clomping feet to come along anyway.”

Drift, wisely, did not confirm that statement. The four of them — Drift, his two dogs, and Ricochet — quickly disappeared into the crystal forest. 

With a sigh, looking out at the sea, Smokescreen pushed himself to his feet and brushed the sand off his plating.

“Next time the two of you decide to play in the sand,” Arcee said abruptly, trying not to think of all the other places he’d probably gotten the stuff, “kindly take yourselves farther away from the rest of us.”

Smokescreen stiffened. “I will keep that in mind for when we next  _ plan _ on such things.”

“I don’t appreciate being vicariously included in your — your amorous activities!” She didn’t appreciate that they were engaging in such activities at all, but as much as she disliked it, she couldn’t exactly order them to stop. “I am not saying you can’t, just that a little courtesy would be nice.”

“There was no intent to include you at all, Princess,” Smokescreen said much more calmly. 

“But I  _ was  _ included, and I don’t want to think about—” Arcee stopped herself, hearing her own voice rising. “My apologies,” she said after venting slowly and deeply in a (mostly futile) attempt to settle her thoughts. The pressure she was under wasn’t something she could vent as easily as air, but none of her travelling companions deserved to have it taken out on them. She turned to head back up the beach.

“Jazz won’t force herself on the princess, Princess,” Smokescreen said to her back.

Arcee’s steps slowed, then stopped. “The way Ricochet doesn’t force herself on you?” she asked quietly. “She’s so…  _ persistent.  _ And you said — she said — that Jazz would try to  _ seduce  _ Prowl. Would that really look so different from how she behaves with you?”

“Ricochet doesn’t force herself on me,” Smokescreen said just as quietly. “I don’t know the specifics of how Jazz will behave, because I’ve never met her, but Ricochet… She’s  _ exasperating. _ She likes to tease, but she’s not truly forceful. I know I’ve said it before, but it’s not to Jazz’s advantage to mistreat or frighten the princess.”

“She can’t help frightening her.” Kidnapping her in the first place had been a mistreatment, and everything since only compounded the problem. “Prowl doesn’t belong out here. Being spirited away like that with no warning, trapped at sea with a complete stranger she can barely communicate with… You didn’t hear her in the forest.” Prowl had been crying, begging someone to save her. Begging  _ Arcee  _ to save her. “She was so afraid.”

“I didn’t hear her, so I can’t question what you heard,” Smokescreen tried soothing. “And I won’t claim that anything Jazz has done is right.”

Right. Smokescreen enjoying Ricochet’s company didn’t mean he condoned the actions of her twin. If anything, he was doing a great deal to make sure they were able to rescue Prowl as quickly as possible — not just as a translator, but as a peacekeeper. “I chafe at this enforced waiting,” she admitted. “Every cycle longer it takes to rescue Prowl… is another I will have to ask her forgiveness for.”

“Perhaps worry first about rescuing her,” Smokescreen said, surprisingly gently, “before you worry about her forgiveness. How to potentially drive Jazz into fleeing the safety of the island isn’t the only plan you need to make.”

True enough. With the extra time afforded them by Jazz taking sanctuary on the island, she could work out a real plan of attack with Drift and Hot Rod for their next encounter, and ensure they had enough energon stored both to continue the chase and start making their way back to Hightower with an additional party member — first on the assumption that the runners would reach them with additional supplies, with a backup plan in case they didn’t.

“You would do well as a diplomat,” Arcee said, turning around to face Smokescreen again. “I am glad to have you with us.”

Smokescreen shrugged. “My aptitude tests said merchant, who am I to argue?” He grinned roguishly. “Definitely couldn’t spend two thirds of the vorn doing nothing but gambling as a diplomat.”

That actually got a laugh out of Arcee. “No, I suppose you couldn’t!” Politics was a full time job, as she well knew, though she’d been selected by the priesthood for the job before she was even harvested rather than going through a series of tests to guide her path. She’d wondered about that when she’d met Prowl, because the other princess was incredibly smart and very good at her work, but it had been immediately clear that her true passion was for those star-charts of hers.

A bit like Arcee enjoyed the rigors of knighthood more than a lengthy treaty debate, actually. Perhaps neither system was perfect.

“Which do you spend more time doing with them then?” she asked, curious. “Trading, or gambling?”

Smokescreen laughed and flopped down at the edge of the hole Ricochet had dug for them. “You ask like they’re two different things with Polyhexians.”

“Since the first involves giving you their money and the second involves winning it back, perhaps they aren’t so different.” And if being a merchant involved as much haggling, negotiating and bluffing as gambling did, there was another similarity. “Hot Rod likes to play at dice too, by the way,” she offered. “Since you’ll have some time to fill.”

“I bet,” the red Praxan smirked at his own turn of phrase, “Ricochet has at least one dice set on her.”

“Then you should be able to get at least one game in. Though what you could wager is beyond me.” Rocks weren’t particularly valuable, for all they had an abundance of those in their current location. “I think I’ll take this opportunity to ban gambling with essential supplies.”

“Why?” He grinned. “You don’t have much to lose in that department, while winning could net you some help with stocking up.”

“Because I won’t have anyone collapsing from low fuel later over bad luck in a game,” Arcee replied good-naturedly. “If you plan to play for keeps, find something else to bet.”

“Sure,” he shrugged carelessly. “Or just don’t let you catch us.”

“See that you don’t.”

.

.

.

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

Jazz had left the  _ kopapa, _ the oblong floating board, only a short ways up the rocks where it wouldn’t be washed out to sea, then taken their supplies with them to find another clearing. This time, they had a tarp to spread out between them and the rough ground, and Prowl had to admit it was nicer.

The process of buffing her plating had been as fascinating as it was relaxing. So much of her finish had degraded entirely that Jazz set about sanding what was left of the high gloss off her plating with a spongy, abrasive, steel wool-like material. Then she’d filled in the scratches with some… thing she described as “stink oil”, which did really, really stink, but which eliminated the last of the visible scratches without requiring a repaint. After washing the stink oil’s stink off, Jazz had begun the waxing and buffing in earnest. Prowl was hard pressed to imagine anything more relaxing in her life.

The result was a satiny, almost matte finish that looked simultaneously dull and waxy, and smooth and soft. She smelled faintly of sweet hydrocarbons. It was as alien as anything Prowl had experienced so far, but she felt so much better for being clean, dry, and, if not polished to a high gloss like she was used to, still perfectly groomed.

“You like?” Jazz asked huskily as she retied the sarong and secured the hikurere back to her shoulders with the magnets. She couldn’t seem to stop petting Prowl. The glide of her fingers over Prowl’s new smooth finish just highlighted how nice and not-scratched she was though, so Prowl was perfectly content to let her.

“I do like,” Prowl replied, her engine idling in a satisfied hum. “‘S so much nicer’n being all messed up ‘n covered in weeds.” Like Jazz still was, though most of her remaining bandages were on the leg with the punctured tire, not all over. “Looks pretty different though.”

“Yeah,” Jazz said with a purr, and Prowl got the distinct feeling that Jazz rather liked the difference. “Hightower polish’s fun, but it don’t last very long.”

“I noticed.” Between the rough, rust-laden wind and water of the sea and all of the uneven rock and sharp crystal common along the coast, a high-end gloss didn’t stand a chance. Jazz’s finish, which hadn’t been as glossy to begin with, was holding up better, but even it bore the scars of running through the crystal forest after Prowl and the injuries she’d taken.

Prowl stepped away from Jazz enough to twirl again, looking down at herself and all the changes a single kilocycle had wrought. If she thought she hadn’t been recognizable before, now she  _ really  _ looked like she’d gone native. Which she hadn’t, she reminded herself, though she did like the way she looked now. It was sort of like getting extra detailing and decorating for special functions and ceremonies — only much,  _ much  _ more comfortable. Those required her to be extra careful not to damage them before whatever event they were for was over. This was something designed to wear and live in, while still being ornamental.

It was just… fun.

She was smiling when she looked back up at Jazz, who was watching her adoringly. “Should do somethin’ ‘bout you now,” Prowl said, hoping to hide the slightly embarrassed blush in her field. Buffing someone else wasn’t something she’d ever done (wasn’t something a  _ princess  _ was supposed to do!), but she’d been paying attention while Jazz worked on her. It didn’t seem all that difficult, just time consuming. “D’ya need sandin’ first? What about yer leg?” She was a little nervous about the idea of peeling those bandages back and actually seeing what lay beneath. She’d never seen any truly serious injuries up close before, and weeds were no substitute for a medic.

“Hmm?” Jazz said distractedly. She reached out and touched Prowl’s abdominal plating, where her torso wasn’t covered by either of the ornamental garments. Prowl still revelled in the smooth glide of Jazz’s fingers over her newly waxed paint, but this time she pulled away. Jazz might be content to just sit there and admire her all cycle, but it made Prowl feel floaty and weird and she’d asked Jazz a question! Fortunately (for her!) Jazz shook off her stupor as Prowl danced out of reach. “Shouldn’t invite m’ta chase ya unless y’want t’be caught, beautiful. Y’want m’ta stop somethin’, tell me. Don’t run, ‘kay?”

“Well then, I want ya t’stop touchin’ and answer me,” Prowl said, not sure what part of what she’d done counted as an invitation. It wasn’t easy to tell when Jazz seemed to take every opportunity — and even  _ created  _ opportunities — to touch her all the time. She couldn’t always tell when Jazz meant those touches to lead to more, either. There were probably a myriad of cultural signals she was missing and inadvertently projecting. Another interesting discussion for later. For now though, “Is it okay t’take th’weeds off’a yer leg yet? It still looks so hollow,” she continued, trying not to cringe at the sunken space where Jazz’s tire was supposed to be.

Jazz poked the bandage-covered lack-of-tire and winced slightly. “Eh… It feels okay. Th’weeds can come off.” She sliced through them with her claws and unwrapped the rubbery weeds from her leg.

Prowl flinched, imagining a hideous open wound, a crippling injury… before actually seeing what was in front of her. Instead of a blown out tire and the bare bolts of Jazz’s unprotected connections, she saw a tiny, rubbery ring tucked underneath the protection of her hubcap. The ring was only as thick as two of her fingers, the rubber almost as thin as flimsy, and the tread was an almost delicate filigree of texture. But it  _ looked _ like a tire.

“How…?” She came back and knelt cautiously beside Jazz for a better look. Was it… was it  _ growing back?  _ “Y’don’t have’ta get a new one put on?”

Jazz looked up from her own careful examination of the new part. “Huh? Where would I git a new tire? And why? This one’ll do fine in a couple’a lunar cycles.”

A couple of lunar cycles without being able to drive would be an incredible inconvenience on the mainland, though of course it didn’t matter out at sea. But while Prowl knew that mechs and femmes could heal from minor injuries with minimal assistance, they didn’t just grow new parts! “Ain’t somethin’ this bad somethin’ ya’d go t’a—” What was a good translation for medic? “—a make-better heal-mech t’fix it fer ya?”

“Priest-mage,” Jazz gave her the word. Prowl supposed it was a sort of catch-all term for mechs and femmes who could use certain kinds of magic, since it was the same term Jazz had used to describe both her and Hot Rod. “And sure, some priest-mages can heal it faster, but this’s fine. Now’n  _ arm _ or a whole  _ leg… _ Those I’d need some help with!” She grinned.

“Really?” That was incredible! When Prowl had first seen that Jazz was missing a tire, she had assumed she’d be without it until she went back home and got it replaced. Was she augmenting her self-repair with some kind of magic? “It’s just so much t’grow back,” she said, still marvelling at the budding tire. “Do all Polyhexians heal like this?”

That question got her a confused look from the islander. “Praxans don’t?”

“No.” Not that Prowl had ever heard. “Scratches, small holes, sure. Those close up eventually, faster ‘f ya get  _ medgrade  _ — special fuel from a priest-mage. But missin’ parts? Priest-mage puts in a new one.” And not just whole limbs; medics could replace bent or broken struts, armor panels, cables, wiring, even things as small as screws and bolts. “I didn’t know y’could do that.”

Now Jazz looked worried. “Does that mean y’can’t heal? Do I gotta git us back t’the islands if y’need somethin’ replaced?”

“I… I dunno. All m’scratches healed fine, but somethin’ bigger…I just don’t know.” Prowl ran her tongue over her flat teeth, wondering if this healing was something Praxans used to be capable of that had faded with the changes in their society like the fangs they might have had, or if it was something they  _ still  _ had, but didn’t have call to use. Naturally she’d always had access to the best medics in Praxus for even the most minor of injuries. Would they have repaired themselves if she hadn’t received any attention for them?

What happened in places where there weren’t many medics, or to those who couldn’t afford their services? All Prowl knew was which areas of Praxus had substandard medical care, not what the consequences or coping methods for those living there were. Maybe they were capable of more than she thought, and Jazz’s new tire wasn’t remarkable to her because she was Praxan, but because she was privileged.

Regardless, she didn’t want Jazz taking off for the islands if she was hurt! No one would be able to follow them, and she’d never be able to escape. “Maybe it’s just somethin’ I didn’t know about,” she said, trying to downplay her earlier surprise. “Ain’t like I ever got hurt real bad b’fore, or saw anyone who was.”

“Ain’t gonna take chances with yer frame,” Jazz said decisively. “Y’git hurt’n we’ll go back t’find a priest-mage just in case. ‘F ya heal fine we won’t again, ‘less it’s real serious, but better t’have one on hand fer th’first time, ‘kay?”

No way she could reasonably argue with that, even if it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “‘Kay,” Prowl agreed, privately making  _ not getting hurt  _ a priority. Not so badly that Jazz decided she needed a medic anyway. The unavoidable small dings and scratches weren’t a problem, but she was definitely going to put on a brave face if she wound up with a larger dent or something.

And not losing limbs was just a good idea in general.

“Will it hurt ‘f I sand’n buff the wheelwell?” Prowl asked, redirecting the conversation back to her original goal. “I’m guessin’ I shouldn’t touch th’tire itself.”

“Naw, won’t hurt. Didn’t git bit on th’wheelwell,” Jazz showed her teeth. “And yeah… shouldn’t touch th’tire until it’s finished growin’ back. It’ll be real easy t’break again until then. I got armor fer m’tires and such fer when th’war season comes.”

“Y’gonna cover it again now when I finish?”

Jazz shrugged. “Ain’t injured. Probably should when we set sail again, but fer now… naw. Don’t think so.”

She’d certainly know better than Prowl! “Then how ‘bout ya lie down’n let me get started,” Prowl said, reaching for the abrasive sponge and waggling it in the air. “It’s yer turn!”

Jazz purred as she made herself comfortable on the tarp, the sound intensifying once she was settled. It seemed she was looking forward to it. Prowl was too, and was pleased when she started sanding to see Jazz relax still further beneath her hands. She looked almost like she was trying to melt into a puddle, and Prowl giggled when Jazz let out a deep sigh and sank  _ even further  _ into the tarp when she started going over her spine in long, even strokes.

“Yer gonna be flatter’n a whai if y’keep that up,” Prowl commented, switching to a circular motion over a patch of finish that hadn’t worn down as much as the rest.

Jazz’s answer was just another purr.

Prowl paused and crawled up next to her where she could see her face. Experimentally she touched those odd protrusions on Jazz’s helm.

She only got a soft sigh in response. Jazz was asleep! Smiling, Prowl continued her gentle sanding. She’d finish what she could reach, then decide whether or not to wake Jazz up to move her.

She must have been really tired after all the sailing and swimming she’d been doing, because not only didn’t Jazz wake when Prowl went ahead and rolled her over to reach her front, she didn’t even stir at the scent of the stink oil. Prowl took her time making sure she got every inch of Jazz’s frame wiped clean before moving on to the wax. It was easier to work with than the sanding sponge, and smelled sweet on her hands. The motions were nearly as soothing to do as they had been to experience, and she kept looking for places she might have missed when she finished, reluctant to stop.

Jazz was well and truly in a deep sleep when Prowl finally packed the supplies back up and sat down beside her. For awhile Prowl just watched her, admiring her handiwork (not bad for her first time!) and listening to the soft sounds of contentment the Polyhexian kept making. All the differences she was discovering between their cultures kept turning over in her processor, only generating more questions the more she thought about them. There were so many things she wanted to ask Jazz!

When Jazz just continued to sleep, however, another thought crept in among the questions. The islands were too far from the mainland to reach by magic or by swimming, and Prowl couldn’t sail the catamaran… but she  _ could  _ use the kopapa to  _ help  _ her swim.

Jazz wasn’t asleep  _ on _ her this time… Prowl edged away, fearing the warrior would wake any nanoklik now that she really didn’t want her to. A pang of… was that regret? Or apology? Something flickered through her spark. It felt almost wrong to be sneaking away like this, but she had to get back to Praxus. She had to escape.

Besides… If Jazz was going to be careless, then she wasn’t worthy… right?

Prowl shook away that thought and made her way down to the rocks where they’d left the oblong board. It was heavier than she’d expected for a thing that had floated and carried both of them so easily. She wondered what it was made of… then shook that way too. If this worked, she might be able to bring it back to Praxus to examine.

Pulling it to the waves was hard because of that weight, and at first it was a relief to let the water lift and support it. But no sooner had she let it start floating than it began fighting her. She kept a hold of it — barely — as she pushed it out further, trying to get past the breakers.

Finally she couldn’t reach the sand with her feet any longer and she tried pulling herself up onto the kopapa. “Tried” being the operative word, as her first several attempts to climb onto it only resulted in it flipping over or her falling back into the water. By the time she finally managed to successfully get on top of it her arms and legs were begging for a rest — a rest she very quickly realized she didn’t have time for. In the time she had been struggling with the board, the waves had pushed her almost all the way back to the island!

She didn’t have anything to paddle with besides her hands, which she was able to make some progress with by laying down on the kopapa. It was still a lot of effort, though at least she wasn’t trying to go forward and stay at the surface at the same time… right up until the point where she reached the the breakers again. A large wave rose up over her and washed her off the kopapa, flipping it and tearing it out of her hands.

Water closed over her head, the turbulence from the waves churning things up so it was next to impossible to see. Unable to touch anything with her feet, Prowl kicked hard and surfaced, spluttering for air and looking around frantically for the kopapa. Of course; when she spotted it, it was being washed back to shore again, floating teasingly on the waves.

Prowl was able to stand again (barely) when she caught it and took a moment to just hang onto it without trying to go anywhere. So much for it being easier to swim with this thing! Unwilling to give up just yet though, she angled the board into the waves and pushed out again, this time not bothering with climbing onto it and just using it to keep her afloat. That seemed to go better at first. Kicking through the water off the end of the kopapa got her farther than rowing with her arms did, but she still had to keep adjusting which way it was pointed. And every time she stopped for even a nanoklik, the waves just tugged her back toward the island.

Back and forth, back and forth… by the third time she’d managed to kick her way past the breakers, Prowl realized there was no way she’d have the strength to wrestle with the kopapa all the way back to the mainland. She might make it part way there before she couldn’t keep going, but then what? The waves might not carry her back to the island, but out to the open sea. She could yell for Jazz to rescue her, but she might not hear her, might wake up too late to do anything about Prowl’s foolishness.

Perhaps Jazz hadn’t been so careless after all. Handling the kopapa might be less complicated than sailing the catamaran, but there was obviously still considerable skill involved — skill Prowl didn’t have.

Defeated, Prowl stopped fighting the waves and let them carry her back to the island.

She was exhausted by the time she had hauled the board back up to where they’d left it before and returned to Jazz. The warrior was still lying there, curled up comfortably, but Prowl could see the faint light in her visor that meant she was awake.

“Didn’t work?” Jazz murmured, sleepily. “Would’a been a good escape, if it had.”

“Don’ wanna talk about it,” Prowl huffed tiredly, flopping down on the tarp and letting her limbs go limp. “Y’made it look s’easy…”

“It was a  _ good _ try,” Jazz insisted. “I was so mad at m’self when I woke up’n realized y’were gone. I should’a taken th’board back t’the kattumaram… realized I really didn’t know if y’knew how t’use it. Almost jumped up t’follow on the kattumaram, but then I spotted ya, from here, right as y’gave up an started comin’ back…” She rolled over to gather Prowl up in her arms, purring. Despite her tired, foul-ish mood, Prowl relaxed into the embrace. “Y’were so smart not t’push yerself past yer limits’n gittin’ stranded. I’ll chase y’down, but I don’t wanna have’ta rescue ya.”

“Hmm…” Prowl let her optics flicker off, somewhat mollified by that revelation. If Jazz had followed on the catamaran, she would have caught up with her before she’d reached the shore even if she  _ had  _ known what she was doing. And it was nice to think that, while Jazz  _ could  _ have rescued her if she’d pushed herself anyway, she didn’t want to have to — because needing rescue would have meant Prowl was doing something dumb. Jazz  _ assumed _ Prowl was smart enough to know how to to use the board, and to know her limits when she discovered she couldn’t. It felt nice for someone to think she was competent for more than just…  _ princess things _ …

Jazz had actually been worried Prowl would get away…

Floating on Jazz’s confidence in her, Prowl sank fully into the warrior’s arms for a well-deserved nap.

.

.

.

Hot Rod was on watch, but  _ no one _ slept through the fireworks going off in the far distance before dawn the next morning.

“Prowl!” Arcee was up and running to the waves before she even realized what had woken her. All she knew was that Prowl was signalling again, Prowl was in trouble, Prowl—

“Woah! Wait!” Arms wrapped around her waist, interrupting her headlong dash towards the sea. With a snarl, she threw her attacker to the ground and whirled on him with naked steel.

Smokescreen gave her a sheepish smile and raised his hands in surrender.

From nearby, Arcee realized she was hearing a low, threatening growl. Ricochet crouched poised on the edge of her and Smokescreen’s hole in the sand, a fang-baring snarl on her faceplates.

“So, ah, can we all just, I don’t know, calm down for a klik?” Smokescreen gave Arcee a charming, harmless grin from where he lay in the sand, then repeated the phrase to Ricochet in the barbarian’s native tongue.

Ricochet snarled something back, but Arcee didn’t wait for a translation to lower her weapon. Drawing on Smokescreen had been a reflex; she had no desire to hurt him. “Are you hurt?” she asked him, deciding against stepping forward to offer him a hand up. The way the barbarian was glaring at her, she didn’t want to extend her hand and lose it.

“I’m good,” Smokescreen assured as he got up. He said something to Ricochet, and she finally quieted. “Sorry, I guess sometime in the last kilocycle she’s decided she’s responsible for me. You calm now, Princess?”

“Yes.” Jumping up and running for the water had been a reflex action as well, an automatic response to  _ trouble!  _ before her processor had fully engaged. She knew there was no hope of swimming to the island, even if Prowl was desperately sending up fireworks to summon help. Help that couldn’t come… Alright, so perhaps she wasn’t really calm so much as rational.

Smokescreen looked at her shrewdly just as Drift and Hot Rod both caught up to their commander and charge. “It doesn’t necessarily mean she’s in trouble right now,” he said. “All it means is that she believes there’s someone out here to see her signal. She doesn’t know that we already knew exactly where she is. She’s trying to point the way.”

“It’s unlikely she knows the coastline any better than we did,” Drift said, adding to Smokescreen’s reasoning. “By her reckoning, any rescue party would be trailing at least a cycle behind her. Our shortcut is not something she will have anticipated anymore than Jazz will have.”

“Even if she did, that island isn’t easy to see, far out as it is.” Hot Rod was looking out over the water at the only sign there even was an island: the last trails of fire hanging in the sky over it. “Signalling is the best way to ensure anyone in pursuit knows where she is.”

Arcee’s engine gave a fitful growl. “Every other time she’s signalled, Jazz has moved them. Time to break camp.”

There was no objection anyone could make to that. If Jazz was going to move again, they had to be ready to follow. Drift and Hot Rod packed up the campsite while Arcee paced restlessly. They didn’t have enough fuel for another chase yet. Despite Ricochet’s mocking, Drift had somehow convinced her to assist in tracking something down, and his hounds had brought down a large beast reminiscent of a zap pony, but with longer, thinner legs, a narrower body, and large, multi-pronged horns. Since she hadn’t aided in the kill, she’d claimed none of the the energon, but had claimed the beast’s horns for herself. Whatever; she was the one carrying them. But it wasn’t enough energon for another lengthy chase. It was just enough for today!

Of the five of them, Ricochet (and by extension, Smokescreen) had the most provisions. In addition to the horns from Drift’s kill, she had brought back a collection of small birds for herself and Smokescreen and, once drained, she’d attached them to lines and used them to catch fish during the high tide. Instead of eating the fish, she’d wrapped her catch in the rubbery weeds exposed during the low tide. Those ovoids, which during the chase had held some sort of gelled energon, were now packed full of weed-wrapped fish. Arcee shuddered just thinking about it.

Jazz was just trying to exhaust her pursuers, she thought savagely.

“Princess!” Smokescreen called as they finished packing, running up the beach. “Princess, wait!”

“What is it?” Arcee asked, sending up a prayer that something else hadn’t just gone wrong. This cycle really didn’t need to get any worse.

“Ricochet heard Jazz calling again,” he said, coming to a stop. “She’s still on the island, and calling for a someone to trade with. She’s not running.”

_ Thank Primus!  _ Arcee felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. “Why not though? She always has before.”

“Maybe she thinks they have time?” Hot Rod suggested, not sounding overly sure. “I mean, we’re closer than she thinks, probably. Plus,” he said, looking a bit hesitant before he continued, “Prowl signalling doesn’t change anything from her perspective. We might know she’s there, but we still can’t reach her.”

“She can guess, based on our previous behavior, that  _ we  _ can’t reach her,” Arcee said, feeling her hands start to clench again. “She’s right about that, but Praxus is not entirely without ships. At any point one of those could join the chase — and, like Ricochet originally believed, she thinks they will have no issue following the coast as she is doing. Or we could be, I don’t know,  _ dragging _ one of those small lifeboats along with us or something.” This development worked in their favor, true, giving them more time to stock up on fuel, but Arcee disliked not knowing the reason behind Jazz’s sudden change in behavior.

She caught Smokescreen averting his optics. He didn’t do something so obviously guilty as edge away, but Arcee got the sudden, distinct impression he knew more than he was telling, like he was filtering his translations again. “Something you want to add?” she asked, deciding that knowing was better than not knowing, even if she didn’t like the answer.

“Not particularly,” Smokescreen hedged, not even trying to hide the fact that he  _ did _ have more to add.

“Try again,” Arcee said firmly, crossing her arms over her chest. “If it explains why they’re staying on the island, I need to hear it.”

Smokescreen thought about it a moment longer, most likely trying to choose his words so as to keep the peace, took a deep in-vent and braced himself. “Possibly because Prowl is enjoying some aspect of staying on the island. Flirting with discovery by her pursuers is worth the risk of staying if it brings — in Jazz’s view — her closer to enticing Prowl to bond.”

Arcee felt her spark constrict. What about this ordeal could Prowl possibly be enjoying?

Before she could start truly working herself up however, Hot Rod actually started chuckling. “Of course she likes the island,” he said, looking around at everyone one by one like he was expecting them to get the joke. When it was clear no one did, he sighed and explained. “It’s an  _ island.  _ It’s not constantly moving under her, and there’s room to walk around. After being trapped for a kilocycle on a tiny little boat like that, being back on land has to be a relief.”

Of course! On the island Prowl would have more space to get  _ away  _ from Jazz, and she’d have the comfort of solid ground beneath her feet. “And Jazz might misinterpret that relief as Prowl weakening,” Arcee said, finally able to feel better about them being out there for another couple of cycles, “when really it’s giving her a chance for a reprieve.”

Satisfied, she turned back to their campsite, intending to help set everything up again. They were still waiting.

She didn’t see Smokescreen’s carefully expressionless faceplate melt into his own relief before he turned back to Ricochet, who was now peacefully prying fuel from the rocks.

.

.

.

After catching her sending off the Snapdragon Fireworks, Jazz had taken Prowl’s spell components away again. This time she did so by going through Prowl’s bag and taking everything she didn’t recognize the purpose of back to the catamaran with the kopapa. Prowl almost expected her to call an end to their reprieve on the island as well, but she let Prowl stay on the shore with her torn up pataka trying to lure tiny crevice dwellers from the rocks.

She was especially eager to see the little wheke again.

This time she was careful to avoid touching anything she wasn’t familiar with. Using a knife to poke around, she flipped rocks to uncover various creatures safely and offered scraps to anything she wanted a better look at. She was still curious about building up an immunity to the stings of the humenga and kina, but this wasn’t the time to start working on that. She was feeling rather clever at the moment and didn’t want to spoil her mood by doing something silly. Before casting her spell this morning, she’d managed to sequester away the material components for her Unseen Servant and another casting of Snapdragon Fireworks by wrapping them in a dried out scrap of flimsy and securing them under her hikurere with the magnets that held the garment in place. Now she just needed to (somehow) not get them wet, or she’d ruin the sulfur for the fireworks; as long as they stayed dry she’d be able to cast her spells. She still needed Jazz to anchor them closer to the shore for her to enact the plan that was starting to form in her processor though, so for now…

Oh! Was that…  _ Yes! _

Prowl finally spotted a wheke and with a sound — which was  _ not a squeak _ — of excitement, she hurried to offer it a scrap of fish to lure it into the open. This one was crawling between the wet rubbery weeds, not submerged in the pool, so she was able to coax it from the wide flat structures of the weed onto her hand. Aware it could crawl into the cracks between her armor, Prowl kept it on her fingers by guiding it back and forth between her hands instead of letting it crawl up towards her wrist. Off in the distance she could just barely hear Jazz playing her shell-horn, but ignored the music in favor of her tiny companion.

She didn’t know why she was enchanted with this particular creature, but she was. Maybe it was how it moved, reaching out with two of its suction cup covered tentacles, then rolling forward on them while reaching with two more to create a fascinating, continuous forward movement that really did look more like a fluid than a solid. Maybe it was the tiny creature’s soft, squishy body, like the midye, but… not. Other than the fish, the sharkticon, and the nijan — which were all hard bodied — this was the most energetically active creature she’d seen. Or maybe it was the strange spark of intelligence she saw in the tiny optics, comparatively huge on the little body.

Whatever it was, Prowl really wished for a blank book and an inkpen. She wanted to sketch it, make notes on how it moved and hunted.

She was still studying it when Jazz hauled herself from the sea and onto the rocks, shaking the water from her armor. “Maybe yer a wheke,” she drawled, amused.

Prowl looked up to snap back and paused: Jazz’s appearance was… not as different as Prowl’s was now than it had been a kilocycle ago, but the it wasn’t what Prowl had become used to. Jazz was wearing similar cloth ornaments to Prowl’s now. She had a pair of sarong like Prowl’s, only instead of red cascading over her legs with bright blue tied around her waist, Jazz’s larger sarong was blue, light blue near her ankles and dark where the fabric clung to her hips, and a smaller black one tied around her waist so the ends trailed down over the slit in the lower one. Where Prowl’s hikurere was red to match the larger sarong, Jazz’s was black to match the smaller. She didn’t understand why, but something about looking at Jazz made her lose her words for a klik.

In that kilk she also noticed that, under the blue sarong, Jazz was wearing the armor she’d described last cycle over her uneven tires to protect them.

“So,” Jazz prompted when she got no answer except the roar of the waves, “are ya? Is the wheke spirit talkin’ t’ya?”

“With actual words? No.” The little creature simply spoke to her emotionally, invoking a sense of wonder and curiosity similar to what she felt for the night sky. “Somethin’ so tiny can really be a spirit guide?”

“Yeah,” Jazz came over and sat next to Prowl. She ran a gentle finger over the wheke’s soft body/head. “Raided a clan three war seasons ago that had a priest-mage with a hex bug fer his spirit guide. Everything’s gotta spirit’n all’a’em have somethin’ t’teach.” She cocked her head at the little creature clinging to Prowl’s fingers with a strange look of mingled fondness and concentration on her face. Wondering what it would be like to share a boat and life with someone with this tiny creature as a guide?

“Well so far it’s taught me ta watch out fer things in th’water gettin’ under my plating,” Prowl laughed. “It never lets anything stop it. When it can’t go one way it just starts lookin’ fer another.” And it was good at finding them too. “Tell me more about ‘em?”

“Wheke’re good luck,” Jazz said happily, apparently deciding this was a good development. “Wayfinders’n pathfinders. Curious, inquisitive’n cautious. Cephalopoda, th’wheke god, finds th’sparks’a sailors lost at sea and guides ‘em t’the sky t’become stars.”

“Really?!” Another  _ not squeak.  _ “Maybe that’s why’m drawn to ‘em then.” Though she still couldn’t hear any voices other than Jazz’s, spirit or otherwise. She pet the wheke as it clambered onto the back of her hand, then lured it back up to her fingertips with a shred of fish. “I love th’stars. There’s so much t’learn from ‘em, so much t’discover that no one knows yet.” She sighed, looking up at the sky. The sun was above the horizon and the stars were gone, but there had been so, so many before she’d set off her fireworks. “Y’can’t see as many from th’city.”

“They’re th’sparks’a th’dead,” Jazz said quietly, “shining t’guide th’living across th’seas. There’s all sorts’a magic t’be found in th’sky.”

“Is.” Prowl let the moment of quiet draw out before bringing her attention back to the present. “How long’s okay fer ‘em t’be outta th’ water? I’ve been watchin’ t’see if it starts havin’ trouble, but it hasn’t slowed down since I picked it up.”

“Bit less than a sun mark, but it won’t be happy about it,” Jazz informed her. “Might like it if y’give it a bit’a water fer a bit.” Curious as the cat she claimed to be, she started digging through Prowl’s pouch, looking for something.

“What’re ya lookin’ fer?” Prowl tried to twist to see what Jazz was rummaging for, but couldn’t see past her shoulder.

“Y’had a spell’a courage in here when I took yer spell pieces,” she answered absently. “Y’got a lotta stuff in here still.”

“Spell’a courage? The necklace?” Prowl guessed, contemplating the wheke on her hand. She didn’t want to put it back yet, but she didn’t want it to suffer. What if one of them  _ was  _ her spirit guide? That wouldn’t make a very good impression!

“Yeah, it was on a necklace.” Jazz kept digging through the accumulated shells and other things. “Courage, t’overcome fear’a deep water.”

How… fitting, given how frightening Prowl still found the open sea. “Lemme look,” she said, lowering the wheke back into the weeds. “Happy huntin’,” she told it, half-hoping for some kind of reply. There was none. “Hey, don’t hurt th’crystals!” she warned Jazz, reaching around to get her away from the bag so she could find the necklace herself.

“Ain’t gonna break anything!” Jazz said indignantly, but she moved out of Prowl’s way to let her look for the necklace. It had shifted when Jazz went through her spell components, and Prowl found the carved tooth wedged under one of the crystal cuttings.

She drew the bag closed and held it up on its cord. “Y’mean this thing?”

“Yep!” Jazz snatched the necklace from Prowl’s fingers. Prowl let out a sharp cry of protest but before she could find any words, Jazz had slipped the beaded necklace around Prowl’s neck. She grinned triumphantly. “There.”

Prowl reached up to feel the tooth hanging just below the star shell, one more accessory in her growing collection. “So what’s it say then?” she asked, eager to know how to read it.

Jazz ran her fingers along the whole length of the spiral, following the pattern effortlessly where Prowl had needed it pointed out to her. “Starts on th’darkest day’a the storm season, when th’sky was as black as a starless night even at the brightest point’a th’day. Waves as tall as mountains lashed Prowl’s kattumaram—”

“Wait, wait.” There was no  _ way  _ the runes on the tooth spelled out her name. “It can’t be about me. Whoever carved it never even met me.”

“It’s yer spell; th’story’s about ya,” Jazz said smugly, then continued. “Th’waves lashed Prowl’s kattumaram. She was a great sailor, and a better navigator. She followed the stars across th’sea, but there were no stars right now. Only rain and lightning and waves. Then one’a those waves came up, up, up over th’boat and crashed down on it, flipping it over’n casting Prowl inta th‘sea.”

“It doesn’t really say that,” Prowl argued, remembering the kopapa flipping over on her and leaving her adrift until she’d chased it down. That had been near shore, and it had still been kind of scary! “I dunno if I like this story all that much…”

“‘S’a spell’a courage,” Jazz said teasingly, reaching over to stroke the blue paint mark across her cheek. “Ain’t gonna mean much if th’story ain’t scary.”

“I s’pose not.” Didn’t mean she liked it, or that she believed Jazz was actually reading the story off the necklace. She was inventing a story, probably based on one she already knew like the stories associated with the dice. “So what happened next?”

“Sea dragged ‘er under. She was gonna drown, but Prowl was strong. She fought the waves’n th’current fer sun marks, keepin’ ‘er head above th’waves. But she knew that no matter how much she fought, in th’end the sea would take ‘er. She didn’t give up though… but when she saw the sharkticons circling, she knew th’sea had won.”

“Still don’t see how this’s anything t’do with courage,” Prowl pouted, fingering the necklace again. Did it even have words on it? Or were the runes just pictures that, like the dice, were an illustrative aid to storytelling?

“‘S about courage because Prowl decided t’face th’sharkticons without fear. Decided ‘er last act was gonna be t’learn somethin’ about Carcharhinidae’s greatest mortal kin. When th’first sharkticon came close enough t’bite, she reached out and touched it. Running her hands over th’sharkticons plating, she felt awe instead of fear. So impressed was th’creature at her lack’a fear that ‘e decided not t’eat ‘er. ‘E positioned ‘imself next ta ‘er and when she grabbed onta ‘is fin, ‘e took ‘er t’the nearest island and left ‘er there.”

Well. That wasn’t so bad after all, was it? Prowl remembered the feel of the little sharkticon’s plating and watching it swim in the tide pool and smiled. It had been a great experience, not a frightening one, and Jazz had woven it into the story for her to take courage from — creating the spell she claimed was written on the necklace herself in the telling.

“That’s a pretty good spell,” she told Jazz, still smiling. “But is that really what’s carved inta th’tooth?”

“Course!” Jazz cuddled up against Prowl’s side and wrapped her arm around her shoulders. She tapped the tooth and it swung against Prowl’s plating a couple of times. “S’a spell’a courage, gotta have a story’a bravery.”

“But not everyone lookin’ at it’d see th’same story.”

Jazz shrugged. “Wouldn’t be useful if they did. Spell’s supposed t’give ya courage, and people don’t git their courage from the same sorts’a stories.”

Prowl couldn’t argue that. A different story, one that wasn’t tailored to her, wouldn’t have been as scary or inspiring. But while it was emotionally effective, that method wouldn’t work very well for disseminating information. “What if y’wanna make sure lots’a mechs hear th’same story though? Not fer a spell, but t’let everyone know somethin’ important happened, or t’teach ‘em how ta do things in case no one’s around t’show ‘em?”

“Like th’stories’a kokako?”

“Like those, like things that happen in yer clan, like how ta build’n sail a boat…” It was so hard to explain what she meant without the words for things like books and writing! If they were closer to the sand instead of sitting on the rocks she would have scribbled a few words to show some of what she was saying.

“Th’priest-mages’n th’rest’a th’clans tell the stories’a th’gods and th’great heroes during th’ harvest season,” Jazz explained, waving her hand illustratively in the air. “When all th’newlings’re gathered together, before they’re taken by their clans. And th’first thing a newling learns before they can leave the growing islands is how ta sail. Usually a newling’ll stay on their clan islands until th’next harvest season, or until their spirit guide finds ‘em,” she shrugged, indicating it actually wasn’t important when a new mech decided to leave for the first time, “then they’ll start wanderin’ off t’follow their mentors.”

That was something she hadn’t considered. When Jazz had explained the seasons, it hadn’t occurred to Prowl that the situation would be perfect for giving everyone the same basic education. A largely cultural education, it sounded like. Having a mentor afterward to show individuals specialized skills was more like what Prowl herself had experienced, though in addition to the king she had her instructors and advisors to help her learn all the things she needed to know. There was just too much for one mech to teach her everything, not and still do their job at the same time.

But Praxan society was more complex than that of the Polyhexians, wasn’t it? A great deal of what Prowl had to learn as the princess was history and political theory, things that couldn’t be easily observed and picked up just by working alongside a mentor. That kind of practical education was better for teaching skills than academics, and a great deal of Polyhexian life seemed to be based on skills.

Still… “Who carves shapes like these?”

Jazz ran her fingers over the tooth again, caressing it — and Prowl’s plating in the process, which made her shiver — “Like these? Priest-mages do, t’construct th’spell.”

“Only priest-mages?”

“Like these, spell-marks… yeah.” Jazz stroked the tooth again, pressing herself against Prowl’s plating. She pressed a kiss to Prowl’s hikurere covered shoulder.

Absently Prowl pushed her away, not wanting to cuddle right now (or for Jazz to find her hidden spell components!). She was more interested in the puzzle that was Polyhexian writing. If only the priest-mages knew how to carve the symbols… did that mean Jazz was illiterate?

At first the idea seemed completely incongruous. Jazz was so  _ smart!  _ How could she possibly be illiterate? But then, if she didn’t  _ need  _ to read or write to live her life, why would she have learned to? Especially if it was something associated with non-warriors. Her knowing how to read would be an anomaly — like a Praxan princess learning magic from the stars.

She had known it was a  _ courage  _ spell though, hadn’t she? Maybe she wasn’t completely illiterate, only partially.

“Does one’a th’symbols mean courage?” Prowl asked, lifting the tooth up so she could see it properly. “What part told ya what kinda spell it was?”

“All’a it,” Jazz said, running her fingers all along the spiral of runes. “This part,” she rubbed the beginning — the part Smokescreen had said indicated the fisher-mech’s spirit animal — “is a scary critter that can eat th’hero’a th’story, and this part is a tale that takes place over deep water,” she rubbed the sequence of runes, then ran one claw over a specific part of each one, “and they only do this if it’s a scary story. Probably a storm. And these,” her fingers traced out the rest of the spiral, “are triumph by overcoming fear, and they only do this,” indicated another specific part of the runes, “when th’story ends on land, without a kattumaram t’carry th’hero home.”

“Ohh…” She’d been thinking about the carvings as letters representing sounds or individual words, not ideas. It wasn’t a terribly specific way of recording information (though maybe there were more specifics there that Jazz wasn’t capable of interpreting), but it did what it needed to do: communicate a message. “That’s clever,” she said, following Jazz’s path over the carvings to fix each piece and what they stood for in her mind. Too bad she didn’t have another one to ask what was on it! “So ‘f it just shows a scary critter, why sharkticons? Cuz th’spell’s fer me and I know what they are?”

“Because I saw th’way y’changed when y’touched ‘im,” Jazz corrected. “If th’spell was gonna do anything fer ya, it had t’be a sharkticon.” She paused, then poked the tooth. “And it’s a sharkticon tooth, so it would’a been a good critter no matter who it was told ta.”

“It is?!” But it was at least three times as big as the teeth in the little one’s mouth! “Oh, wow.” How big must the rest of it have been? “Guess it must work,” Prowl grinned, “since right now I ain’t scared, just curious.”

“Does work!” Jazz declared. Then her voice lowered, going husky, as she reached over and traced the glowing paint mark over Prowl’s chest. “Curious about anything else right now?”

Prowl laughed at the blatant and abrupt attempt at seduction. “Not that!” Not now, anyway. Maybe later, when she wasn’t having so much fun listening to stories and playing in the tide pools. She’d found several new things she wanted to ask Jazz about and whether they were safe to touch, and she still had pataka left. “I wanna keep explorin’. Maybe I’ll find m’spirit guide.”

“A’course,” Jazz bounced to her feet. “Just give me a heading.”

.

.

.

Much later, as the sun was just beginning its descent from its zenith to the water, Prowl rested on the sand of one of the other small islands and watched the sea. Or more specifically, she watched Jazz.

She’d thought the kopapa was an awkward way to ferry people and things to and from the catamaran, but it seemed that wasn’t its purpose at  _ all. _ Watching Jazz (showing off) dancing on the waves balanced perfectly on the board, Prowl felt a little silly and clumsy for her inability to even paddle with it. But that was a small thought. Much more significant was the wonder and awe she felt  _ watching _ Jazz do her tricks. She was trying to impress, and Prowl had to admit it was working.

Every time she thought Jazz was about to wipe out she managed to stay on top of the kopapa, skimming over the water just ahead of the crashing waves she was riding. It looked exhilarating, and Jazz was obviously having fun. She whooped and yelled her excitement, and Prowl got caught up in it to the point of applauding one of her more spectacular stunts.

Jazz couldn’t hear her clapping, but she saw and waved before proceeding to outdo herself with a still-more-complicated maneuver.

She was ginning widely when she came back in at last and bounded up the beach to Prowl. “Wanna try?”

“Yes!” Prowl stood, brushing sand from her sarong. “Help me with th’ties?” Jazz hadn’t been wearing her decorations so she could move more freely (another thing Prowl hadn’t thought of the previous cycle), and she needed to keep the hikurere and its hidden packet of sulfur dry.

“Sure.” Jazz shook the water from her plating and reached for the knots. Prowl waited until she was concentrating on the complicated knot that secured the blue cloth around her waist, then easily took the magnets and hikurere off her own shoulders. She folded the spiked crescent shaped cloth several times, ensuring the little packet with her spell components remained hidden within the folds. By the time Jazz had taken both sarong off, Prowl was ready to make a neat pile of all three garments next to Jazz’s, spell components nowhere in sight.

She wondered if she should take off the necklaces and bracelets — Jazz hadn’t — but Jazz tugged her toward the water before she could reach for the sharkticon tooth.

Jazz dragged the kopapa and Prowl both out knee deep into the water, just past the point that remained underwater even as the waves retreated. She handed the board to Prowl. “Y’climb on here, when y’still have leverage from land t’keep it from tryin t’float away. Ya’ll paddle th’rest’a th’way out.”

That wouldn’t help when she inevitably ended up tumbled off the board into the water, but for now Prowl followed Jazz’s instructions. Laying down on the board in the shallows was much easier than hauling herself up onto it, and Prowl situated herself in the middle carefully. “How far’m I supposed t’paddle?”

“In a bit,” Jazz said, amused. “Yer too far forward. I know it feels more secure, but the nose here,” she  _ thunked _ her fist against the front of the board, “has t’stay above the surface. Makes it easier t’paddle, keeps ya from tipping forward. More control. Scooch back a little.”

Inch by inch, Prowl moved backward until she heard Jazz’s hum of approval. She didn’t feel like she was going to fall off the end, but if the idea was to prevent tipping forward, she was now quite sure the only way she’d tip was backward.

“Now y’paddle like this,” Jazz demonstrated the motions. “Try it, just here in th’shallows. We might need t’adjust position again. Everyone’s different.”

Prowl copied the motions. They didn’t feel natural, but she had to admit that, once she got the hang of them, they pulled her much more strongly through the water than her previous attempt. Jazz watched shrewdly and twice stopped her. Once to ask her what she was feeling from the board, and, when Prowl described the feeling of dragging it through the water, adjust her position again. The second, to correct her arm movements.

It probably took a couple of joors — and many mistakes, falls, and lost grips — for Prowl to finally get it right to Jazz’s satisfaction. “Yes! Like that Prowl!”

Prowl grinned, this time not upsetting the board when she turned to look at Jazz. “I’m actually steerin’ it!” she said excitedly, reveling in the feeling of the kopapa  _ cooperating  _ with her instead of fighting her. She could find the right spot now with relative ease, and her arms pulled her through the water with efficiency if not speed, since she was beginning to tire.

“Ready fer th’fun part?”

“Fun part?”

“Yer gonna paddle out t’the waves and ride one back t’shore,” Jazz grinned. “Paddle out t’just where th’whitewater is rollin’ towards th’beach, and turn t’face the island. Keep an optic on ‘em comin towards ya, and when ya see one that’s big enough, paddle t’gain speed. Keep paddlin’ as th’wave picks ya up and when y’pick up speed, pull yer arms in and ride yer first wave in.”

That did sound like fun! Setting her sights on the breakers, this time with no plans to escape beyond them to the mainland, Prowl started paddling. If she had been planning to escape, she wouldn’t have gotten far; Jazz swam alongside her, easily keeping up and completely unfatigued. Prowl was looking forward to getting to ride the waves, not just for fun, but to let the water do the work of moving her for once!

Getting pointed in the right direction in the choppier water was a little difficult. She managed to get the nose caught and flipped herself trying to turn, but this time she didn’t lose the board entirely and was much quicker about getting back onto it. Jazz stayed close, treading water in case she got into trouble, but otherwise let her sort herself out. Eventually, after one more close call, Prowl was successfully facing the beach once more.

“Just start paddlin’ when a wave comes?” she asked, looking over her shoulder for a likely candidate.

“Yep!” Jazz called, treading water nearby. “Y’wanna be goin’ really fast.”

Prowl spotted what she thought was a good wave and started paddling… but never felt it catch. She slowed, confused and turned to Jazz, who had followed.

“Try shifting forward a tiny bit,” Jazz advised. “Ya’ll feel it when it catches. Try again!” She grinned, then turned to lead them back out to the breakers. Prowl was tired, but Jazz’s enthusiasm and faith was hard to argue with, so she turned the board and started paddling after her.

That’s how it went for two more waves. Prowl was starting to be discouraged and seriously contemplating calling a halt. The sky was changing colors as sunset approached. One last try…

She felt the next wave catch! She whooped in excitement, then in alarm as the wave pushed the board up and over her, sending her aft over headlights into the water.

She came up sputtering.

Jazz had already retrieved the kopapa board. “One more time,” she said encouragingly. “Y’almost had it. This time, as it starts ta take ya, put a little more weight on yer legs t’counterbalance, ‘kay?”

“‘Kay,” Prowl gasped out as she clung to the edge of the kopapa, taking a moment to catch her breath before gritting her teeth and pulling herself up onto it once again. She’d almost had it! She wanted to get it, to say she’d done it just once before heading back in.

Determined, she paddled out and turned, watching for the next wave. That one looked promising… Forcing her arms through the water, Prowl started building up speed as the wave approached, swelling beneath her — and catching!

“Woohoo!” Prowl cheered and leaned back to keep from flipping this time. Her first instinct was to grab the sides of the board, but Jazz had said to keep paddling when she caught the wave so she did, pulling as the wave carried her until it felt like the board was propelling itself entirely.  _ Then  _ she pulled her arms in, shouting again into the wind. “I did it!”

The wave took her all the way to the sand and left her there. She jumped up and shouted again. “I really did it!”

Jazz climbed out of the surf a moment later. She ran over to Prowl and tackled her in a hug. They both went crashing to the sand to splash in the next oncoming wave, and both had to scramble to keep the kopapa from being washed back out to sea.

After they’d hauled the board back up the beach where their cloth ornaments were, Jazz tackled her again. “Y’did it!”

“I did!”

Excitedly, Jazz planted a kiss on Prowl’s lips.

Prowl squeaked in surprise, but then surged into the kiss, deepening it. She pulled Jazz against her, the physical contact an outlet for the surge of energy success had given her even as a different kind of energy started to gather inside her. The position they’d landed in pinned one of her doorwings, but she was able to flick the other insistently as she broke the kiss just long enough to gasp, “Please!” before sealing her lips over Jazz’s again.

Obligingly, Jazz traced the edge with her claws, working her way towards the joints. She couldn’t reach the sensitive hinges, so she ran her claws out towards the edges again, looking for other sensitive spots. She found them, and Prowl shuddered when Jazz traced over the latches that fastened the panels down when she transformed.

In retaliation (or was it a reward?) she brought a hand up to Jazz’s helm and started rubbing circles against one blue-dotted protrusion.

“Ah!” Jazz leaned into the touch, shuddering. “Yes!” Prowl heard Jazz’s chestplates unlatching and a moment later, they were bathed in blue sparklight.

It was still beautiful, Prowl thought. Still a star plucked from the heavens and placed in a mortal frame…  _ calling… _

Her chestplates parted to answer the call, the light of her spark spilling out to blend with Jazz’s. Caught up in their embrace the way they were, their sparks were close enough together for flickering wisps to leap across the gap between them and touch. Prowl froze, a whine building in her engine. It felt so good… it would feel even better if she just  _ moved closer… _ Jazz broke the kiss and pulled away with a whine of anguish. The tendrils of sparklight resisted, and both of them gasped when they finally let go.

Jazz sat back panting. Her hands rested on Prowl’s chest, as though to frame the spark within her lover. Her thumbs dipped into the opening, caressing components and circuits close to Prowl’s spark and twining those tendrils of light around her claws. Prowl rested her hands on Jazz’s shoulders, wavering on the brink between holding her at arm’s length and dragging her back in. She’d resisted merging so far, but…

“Tell me,” she pleaded, her arms trembling. There was only one reason for her to hold back, and it might not even  _ be  _ a reason. That oh-so-helpful book had said bonding required intent from both partners, which she felt confident about avoiding right now, but she had to know: what did  _ Jazz  _ consider officially mated and bonded? “If we merge, are we… we won’t be bonded mates, will we?”

“Ain’t gonna form a bond,” Jazz panted back. She shifted her weight back, to kneel straddled over Prowl and slid her hands, gently, into Prowl’s spark. “Spirits and gods Prowl… I want ya. I want  _ every _ part’a ya… but I ain’t gonna bond until yer ready fer it. I promise.”

Prowl’s vision bleached out temporarily. Jazz was right there, so perfect,  _ calling…  _ “Ain’t ready,” Prowl confirmed, the words crackling with static. “Not t’be yer mate. But I want us t’be  _ lovers,”  _ she said, the Praxan word the only one she could think of.  _ “Lovers  _ in every sense’a th’word — I wanna share sparks!”

Jazz groaned. She swung off Prowl’s legs to kneel next to her. “Sit up.”

Curious, Prowl did so, kneeling in front of the islander as she moved closer, bracing her knees against Prowl’s while she leaned in for another — incredibly gentle, sweet — kiss.

The semi-solid lights of their sparks reached for each other, glowing brighter and brighter as tendrils knotted around each other to almost physically pull the two  _ lovers _ closer.

Prowl arched her back, pressing her chest to Jazz’s and cried out, panting. Jazz was also gasping, making loud moans and cries against Prowl’s neck where she clung. The claws of one hand dug into the joint at the base of her doorwings while the other wrapped around her shoulders.

_ Love… love… LOVE…  _ Jazz’s emotions battered against Prowl like waves against the shore, and she felt like she was drowning in them. Unlike being underwater though, she had absolutely no desire to surface.  _ Wonder  _ and  _ awe  _ filled the merge from her side, spawned from all the joy she had found in surfing, in exploring, in being allowed and  _ trusted  _ to do those things. Similar  _ wonder _ and  _ awe _ met her own. Her joy swirled together with Jazz’s happiness. This incredible spark weaving around her own saw her, knew her, and somehow liked her!

Prowl had never felt so safe or comfortable with herself before, until she could see what Jazz saw. Could Jazz see herself the way Prowl did? Graceful, beautiful, and so  _ alive! Admiration  _ and  _ respect  _ swirled with  _ affection  _ that was only conflicted because Prowl had to hold herself back. She couldn’t send that  _ love  _ back, but she could share everything else Jazz had shown her how to feel.

_ Love… _ Jazz’s was offered freely…  _ Love… _

Just as before, all awareness of the outside world faded from Prowl’s consciousness. All there was in the world was Jazz, and she wasn’t outside, but right there inside her spark! Prowl let her spark caress the other sharing space with it, the feelings and sensations moving beyond even words. And when the energy built up between them became too much for them to contain it any longer, the compressed ecstasy burst between them.

Prowl could feel Jazz overloading with her, and it was better than anything she could have imagined. She couldn’t hear her own scream of ecstasy, but Jazz’s echoed in her audios and followed her down into darkness.

She woke once again to Jazz’s soft singing. Before her optics even came back online, Prowl knew they were still together, curled in the sand with chestplates still open. The same tranquil feeling of peace she had felt last time, only moreso, lingered in her systems and eliminated any desire to move.

“Hey,” she said gently, meeting Jazz’s optic band with a relaxed smile. “Thank you.”

Jazz purred and cuddled closer. They weren’t so close their sparks could touch, but trailing tendrils still reached for each other. Each caress was gentler than fingers could ever be, no longer grasping, just basking in the combined light. Prowl sighed and held Jazz, her gaze travelling up to the sky where the first stars had begun to appear.

One by one the constellations took form overhead. Prowl watched them, naming each one as it was completed… The Caravan, The Stair of Stars, The Key… She smiled when she saw the pink star wink into view, this time appearing fixed in place without the distorting motion of the catamaran. So many she had no names for fit themselves in around the familiar stars, this sky simultaneously darker and brighter than the one Prowl watched every night.

A comet drew a trail of light across her field of vision. She was fairly certain it was Avliyic, a body that appeared… well, each harvest season! Perhaps it was bringing its light to the newlings of Polyhex, welcoming them to the world and inspiring a love of the heavens.

“Do th’priest-mages have names fer the stars?” she asked the femme in her arms.

Jazz chuckled. “Sooo many names. Every star’s gotta name.”

“Th’name their sparks had when they were here?”

“Yeah.” Jazz shifted so she could point straight up, to the star that was the northernmost point on the Stair. “That’s Skyside, th’very first mech t’crawl outta th’ground on our islands. ‘E always points north, no matter what time’a night, or what season.” She pointed to another, which happened to be the next star in the Stair, and brighter than the northernmost one Praxans simply called  _ the North Star. _ “That’s Stormrunner, who—”

“Stole fire from the gods,” Prowl finished, remembering the story. She pointed up to the dim pink star that had guided her through those first hard cycles after Jazz had taken her. “What’s that one?”

It was such a dim, tiny star that she expected Jazz to have to struggle to remember, or to make up a story as she had already proven she could, but Jazz answered immediately with no pause to think. “That’s actually two stars: Seadreamer and ‘er mate Silvercloud. Right now they look like one, but durin’ th’ last lunar cycle’a the storm season, y’can see they’re two.”

“Really?” It was hard enough to see the star — stars — on a clear night like this. Spotting something like that during the storm season was pretty incredible.

“Mhmm,” Jazz hummed, like it was something everyone just knew. Perhaps all Polyhexians did. “When Sunblast,” she continued, briefly pointing to another star so Prowl would know which one was Sunblast, “killed th’first koka so mechs and femmes could leave th’confines of th’islands, they found it weren’t as simple as just takin’ their boats out beyond Carcharhinidae’s teeth. There were scary things out beyond th’teeth: storms that could cover the whole sky in black, winds that whipped up so fast they could only be magic, and swells large enough t’swallow whole villages.”

All good reasons to stay put, the practical part of Prowl’s processor said. The curious, adventurous side couldn’t blame them for testing the waters and pushing at their borders, though not without great difficulty, apparently. “Worse, without any sort’a landmarks, it was so very easy to git lost. Y’can sail forever and not see even th’tiniest sign of land. Many, many’a those first kattumaram that ventured out sailed in circles until th’sailors drowned. More were lost to no one knows what. None returned.

“Eventually the then-chief declared that no-one would sail out beyond the barrier teeth, fer there was nothin’ t’be found out in the wider sea except our deaths.” A decision that had probably made the chief popular with some, while others would have chafed at the restriction, Prowl reasoned. She surmised Seadreamer to be one of the latter, and Jazz confirmed it.

“Seadreamer defied the chief and stole a ship t’sail out inta th’sea. Like those before her, she quickly lost sight’a land. Fer many seasons she sailed aimlessly, weathering storms and winds and all th’sea could throw at ‘er. Fuel ran low. She fished, but th’deep water fish were scarcer, cagier… more vicious than those inside Carcharhinidae’s teeth. Sharkticons were circlin’ th’dying femme.”

“But her courage wasn’t in facin’ ‘em, was it?” Prowl smiled. “She was facin’ th’sea itself.”

“Was, and was determined t’find ‘er way,” Jazz nodded, helm rocking against Prowl’s shoulder. “When she saw th’ _ toroa _ flyin, for want’a any other direction, she turned ‘er tattered sail t’follow th’bird. Toroa led ‘er first t’a great shoal’a fish that filled her nets t’bursting. Th’sharkticons stopped following ‘er after that,” she said with a chuckle, “but after eatin ‘is fill th’toroa flew on, so Seadreamer followed ‘im again. Fer a season she followed th’bird, who followed th’sunrises, until th’wind, th’waves, th’scents carried on th’air, all started speakin’ ta ‘er.  _ Land _ they said, and not a sunrise later Seadreamer anchored ‘er kattumaram on th’sands’a an unknown land. She sang ‘er praises t’the gods’n thanked th’toroa fer guidin’ ‘er.”

“Guidin’, like a spirit guide?”

“Could be! Anyway, on th’new land she met a new people, strange ones with wings on their backs,” Jazz petted one of Prowl’s doorwings, “who traded shells and bones fer fuel. One’a the strange mechs, Silvercloud, took her fer a lunar cycle t’prove ‘e was as strong as she, and they bonded under th’full moon.”

A familiar tradition, Prowl mused, wondering that it was so old. She was curious where Seadreamer had landed as well. Had she come ashore in what had been ancient Praxus? Their principle hot spot and capital might be inland, but Praxans had always made settlements and lived along the western coast as well. The primary hot spot for Hightower itself wasn’t too far from the city walls, in fact.

“When it came time fer ‘er t’go, Silvercloud came with ‘er. They prepared t’start their journey back, but Seadreamer still didn’t know where  _ home _ was. Again her guide, th’toroa, came ta ‘er, and she asked how she could find ‘er way back t’the islands. Th’toroa told ‘er t’keep Skyside ta ‘er right and sail away from the rising sun an’stars. With ‘er heading decided, she and ‘er mate set out together. They sailed, fleeing th’rising sun fer many, many sunrises, until Seadreamer saw the fire-topped mountains of ‘er home island.”

“She must’a been a welcome sight.”

“Course she was! She was th’first sailor t’leave th’islands and come back. And she brought back th’secret’a navigating without landmarks.”

“And she was th’first ta take an outland mate, even if ‘e’s th’one kidnapped her.” Something was starting to itch under Prowl’s plating — sand, probably. She shifted slightly, searching for a more comfortable position. “How come ‘e took her, ‘stead’a th’other way ‘round? Did she tell ‘im ‘bout how ta prove ‘imself and ‘e decided t’try?”

Jazz looked at Prowl like she had just said that the sun was purple. “N~o… That’s a different story, and I’ll tell it if y’want. But legend says Silvercloud took ‘er because that was how  _ his _ people took mates. Seadreamer was th’first’a our people t’be taken like that.” She shrugged, grinning charmingly. “Obviously it stuck around.”

“…Obviously.” Prowl felt stunned. The whole kidnapping ritual to claim a mate hadn’t originated in Polyhex? Could have, in fact, potentially come from  _ her own people?  _ “Our history don’t go back as far’s yers,” was all she could think to say. Praxan history started with the now-fallen United Kingdom of Galifar, which supposedly had been built by the gods when they walked and lived among mortals, and of which Praxus had been a vassal state. A mortal empire built and inhabited by the gods had always sounded ludicrous to Prowl; many of the non-religious historians of Praxus agreed and speculated that Galifar had conquered the mainland nations sometime in the distant past. But, as there were no records that went back that far, the scholarly community assumed that the nations that existed before Galifar’s empire-building had been much like they were after it fell. No one had ever thought to ask the “barbarian” Polyhexians what their stories said. The hint of something  _ else, _ something  _ unknown, _ left Prowl momentary breathless. 

Jazz didn’t shrug, or make some condescending remark. She just held Prowl closer, engine purring contentedly. Prowl lay quiety, thinking about that unexpected revelation. More than ever she wished there was more information about the beginnings of Praxan society. It was a distinctly odd feeling to have started this voyage with Polyhex being the culture she knew nothing about, only to discover she didn’t know her own as well as she’d thought.

On a much more mundane level, the sand was starting to feel odd as well. The way they’d tumbled into it had gotten the stuff under armor plating and into joints, and now that she was thinking about it she could  _ feel  _ it, itching and irritating no matter what she did.

Fidgeting gave way to squirming, and finally Prowl couldn’t take it any longer. “I need t’get up,” she told Jazz regretfully. “I need t’do somethin’ about all’a this sand.”

“Water’s right there,” Jazz said carelessly. The sand didn’t seem to bother her at all. “I’ll dig us a place t’spend th’night’n spread out th’tarp, and be ready t’warm ya up when ya git back.”

“‘Kay.”

Extricating herself from their tangle, Prowl stood and walked down the beach. She brushed as much stray sand off her chestplating as possible before closing it against the sea and plunged in, squealing at the chill of the air compared to the temperature of the water and sighing with relief as the waves washed the rest of the gritty particles away.

She didn’t go far, just far enough to bend down and submerge herself completely for a thorough rinse. The air felt even colder when she came back up, and she was glad to return to Jazz’s side to warm up.

She had to pause a few footsteps away though, and just stare. Jazz was perched on the edge of the sandy hole she had dug, with the tarp spread out over it and tucked down into it to create a nice warm pocket for them to sleep in. But she wasn’t watching for Prowl’s return; she was singing, optic band up, looking at the stars.  _ Her _ chestplates were still open and she didn’t look interested in closing them anytime soon, with her claws gently raking through her own spark.

As Prowl watched, Jazz started to gather tiny glittering flakes in her hand, her song intensifying with each scattering of sand-like spark-stuff she added to her handful. She looked like she was enjoying this part too; obviously the clinical descriptions in that book hadn’t done this part justice either. There the process of collecting and releasing the accumulation of leftover fused spark energy from multiple merges had sounded uninteresting, dull, just like any other routine maintenance. Watching Jazz now, Prowl could see it was anything but.

When combing through her spark didn’t pull out any more of the glowing, blue glitter, Jazz cupped what she had in both her hands. A few twinkles escaped and disappeared before they touched the sand; Jazz ignored them. She cradled the spark-stuff and slowly compressed it between her hands. When her song hit its crescendo, she opened her hands and with a joyous shout, flung the newborn sparks into the sky.

The wind caught the plume of lights and carried them away into the night. It really wasn’t any wonder that Polyhexians believed stars to be the sparks of the dead. Their race began life as free-floating sparks in the sky, and, in their myth and legend at least, ended life there as well. It was beautiful and poetic, Prowl thought.

With a smile, Jazz looked away from the sky and to Prowl. She looked… alive, and at peace. “Y’ready t’sleep?” she asked, stretching out her hand.

“Yeah.” Prowl took the offered hand and settled down into the sand hollow beside Jazz, curling up so Jazz could wrap around her. Looking up at the sky again, she wondered… there was no way to know for sure where, or with whom, a particular spark had originated, but somewhere, someday, maybe there would be a newling that they had helped bring to life. It was an incredible feeling.

As Prowl drifted, buoyed by that feeling, Jazz pulled the rest of the tarp over them both. Curled up together, with the tarp over and under them, their hollow warmed quickly and warmth and contentment pulled Prowl to sleep.

.

.

.

Ricochet’s optical sensors were adjusted to the night. The stupid Prax and the not-Prax hunting Jazz could barely see their hands in front of their faces, but this sort of darkness was comfortable, and comforting, to a sailor. A calm sea and all the stars spread out overhead. Because it was so dark, and because Ricochet had felt her twin’s sparkmerge earlier and so had been watching for it, she saw the scattering of tiny, almost imperceptible lights float off into the sky.

She still had mixed feelings about it. She wasn’t upset about Jazz finding her mate at all anymore; she was happy the courtship seemed to be going well. She just wished it hadn’t necessitated leaving her behind with no warning, even temporarily.

She turned slightly to see Smokescreen and the others huddled around the light of a small fire, as though the flickering glow would protect them from the dangers that lurked beyond its confines. She scoffed. Smokescreen had refused her tonight, to dice with the one called Hot Rod, but it didn’t change Ricochet’s feelings. She wanted him, wanted him to be  _ hers… _ When Jazz was finished wooing her mate, Ricochet would take Smokescreen. It should be easy to convince him to bond. Unlike Jazz, she didn’t want a constant companion; they’d live their separate lives, but as a bonded couple… if he was willing.

Thinking of him, of the plume of sparks Jazz had just sent to their fates, Ricochet rubbed at her own chest seam. Well why not? She might not have merged tonight, but she had merged (with multiple partners, Smokescreen only being the most recent) since the last time she had sung her praises to the sky.

She was not the greatest of singers. Her song-prayer ended up sounding more like it was being chanted than sung, but the sky didn’t care. She sang her love for each of her partners, her love for the sparks she was making, her hopes, her dreams… all the while slowly raking the bits of energy from her spark.

She held the spark-stuff in her hands and slowly pressed it together, molding and shaping it like moist sand. Love, she chanted to the sky. They would travel far, and the winds would teach them of their ancestors, the stars, and when they settled, they would be beautiful and strong and possessed of Ricochet’s strength and Smokescreen’s cleverness and humor… They would be great, and the legends of their deeds told and sung for all time… 

“Ricochet?”

The warrior turned her half-lit visor to Smokescreen and smiled. The chant reached its peak in intensity and she opened her hands to show her future-mate the ten little sparks he had helped her make.

Then with a cry of victory, she flung them into the sky to join Jazz’s on their journey to life.

Smokescreen watched them ascend, following their path until they could no longer distinguish them from the stars. “Guess I helped with some’a those, huh?”

Ricochet chuckled. “Did.”

“Hope th’world’s ready for ‘em. “ Smokescreen didn’t have fangs, but they would have suited the grin on his face. “Heard ya singin’. Didn’t know that was part’a the process.”

“It’s th’last time I’ll see ‘em. Gotta tell ‘em how much I love ‘em before they leave.” Did Praxan’s not? That seemed so weird to Ricochet. Just because they were going to land and grow  _ somewhere else _ didn’t mean they weren’t part of Ricochet, didn’t mean they didn’t deserve her love and praise.

Smokescreen’s expression softened. “That’s real sweet. Guess it’s kinda like how I wish mine luck when I set ‘em free.” He stroked over his chest seam absently. “Gonna need ta do that again sometime soon too, ‘specially if we keep mergin’.”

So Smokescreen did tell his sparks something, at least. “Don’t understand why y’don’t just do it now. Calm sea, gentle wind, clear night so they can see all the stars and won’t git lost. S’a good time fer it.”

“‘S’pose it is,” Smokescreen said, though he cast a quick glance back over his shoulder at the not-Prax still sitting by the fire. “Maybe move a little farther away first.”

That was an odd request, but Ricochet didn’t have a problem with it. She shrugged. “Sure.”

“Just don’t feel like testin’ her patience right now,” Smokescreen explained with a sheepish grin. “Courtesy, y’know? Hot Rod’n I already made her suspicious with our gamblin’.”

“Whatever,” Ricochet scoffed. “Don’t care. Wherever you want.”

“Ya comin’?” Smokescreen asked, walking away from the camp. He didn’t really sound surprised by her lack of concern with the not-Prax, or seem bothered by it. Yet another nice thing about him — he might be trying to minimize conflicts between everyone in the group, but he never told Ricochet she had to get along with them. He let her be who she was.

“Yeah.” Ricochet followed him.

Maybe they’d start making some new sparks when he was finished.

.

.

.

A huge lake of water spread out before her. She stood amongst the wet rubbery growing things, where crystals grew in the sheltered cracks in the rocks. She could see the dark shadows of rocky mountains rising beyond the red waters of the lake.

Prowl was looking for something.

What she was looking for she wasn’t quite sure. Something important, she knew that. Something in the water?

She walked out into the lake, letting the water rise up over her feet, her knees, her chest… When it closed over her head, a whole world of color revealed itself before her optics. Clinging to the rocks were all sorts of things, some familiar, some not. The bright humenga were enormous, their stinging tendrils swaying in the water above her as she kept going. Columns of rubber weeds floated upward like living pillars supporting the spiny kina peeking out from between their fronds. She peered up through the sunlight filtering down from the surface, glittering with the movement of the lake.

The ground beneath her moved. Prowl gave a startled squeak of alarm. What was happening? From where she was standing she could see several branches of “rock” moving all around her, and one of them was curling upward off the bottom of the lake. It was reaching for her…

Not wanting to get squished, Prowl kicked off the “rock” and swam away from its moving arms and looked down at… It was one of the star shaped creatures! She could see its shape now from above, spreading out beneath her. She’d walked out on top of it without realizing it, and it didn’t seem to have liked that very much.

Marveling at the exquisite, bumpy texture of its armor, Prowl landed right next to it to get a closer look. Those tiny suction cups on the end of its arms waved in her direction and she reached out to touch one, wondering how it controlled its little rubbery tendrils.

They waved back, examining her armor and seeming just as curious about her as she was about it. It didn’t seem to have optics or audios or anything Prowl recognized as sensory components. Did it experience the world entirely through touch? What kind of world was that?

One of the suction cups stuck to the armor of her leg.

That was… enchanting and fascinating for all of a klik, until more suction cups stuck to her and started pulling her towards the creature. She struggled to get away as it crawled, slowly but inexorably, on top of her.

She struggled, prying at the suction cups. She got one to release and moved onto the next before it could reattach.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, Prowl managed to scramble away from the star creature. It didn’t move fast, so she put some distance between her and it, and took shelter under one of the rubbery pillars of weeds.

She knew the kina spines were poisonous so she avoided them, but she did try to get a closer look. They were huge! At least twice as big as she was! They moved as slowly as the star-creature did, but she did manage to see that they were somehow eating the rubbery weeds. She didn’t see their mouths, but they chewed through the weeds, drawing the pieces up underneath them like the star creature did.

Guessing that if they were eating the rubber weeds they wouldn’t be interested in eating her, she moved a little closer… oh! They had tendrils with suction cups too! Sticking out from between their spines, the suction cups on long tentacles reached out to pull them along, or to pull the weed closer, or just wave in the air almost randomly, looking for something to pull on. How neat! Just like the star creature! Did that mean they were related somehow?

A shadow fell over her then was gone as something swam by overhead, then another, then another. Prowl looked up, trying to see what they were. They were so quick! It was only when one paused to nibble at the weeds too that she saw it was a fish, with silvery-orange armor reflecting the sun off its sides. She was about to swim up for a better look when it seemed to notice her, and  _ whoosh!  _ It darted toward her so fast she spun in its wake from the turbulence it created in the water.

Had it been trying to eat her? Maybe she could find something else to look at. Sinking back down, Prowl started examining the rock bed and the tiny crystal growths, peeking into the shadows of the crevices she knew tiny creatures liked to hide in. Tiny creatures like—

Nijan! Only the specimen crawling over the rocks and through segmented crystals just ahead wasn’t tiny, it was huge! Its claws snapped and Prowl ran. Those wouldn’t just hurt! Those would cripple or even kill her!

She needed a place to hide!

She stumbled around discarded shells the size of houses and found one, a spiral-shaped one like Jazz’s shell-horn, that was still intact. She crawled into it and pulled her foot out of reach right as the nijan’s pincer would have closed on it and dragged her to her doom.

She huddled there while the huge creature tried to fit its claws into the opening to get her out.

Eventually it gave up. Prowl peeked out again.

That had been scary! Nijan moved a lot faster than the star creatures! But at least she’d managed to find a safe place to hide. She pulled on the shell, testing how heavy it was and if she could carry it with her in her explorations. Not the easiest thing to move with, but doable. The water made it easier for her to lift, though it was heavy enough that when she tried to truly carry it rather than drag it the weight had a tendency to overbalance her. Still, she persisted until she found another likely spot to explore. Then she wedged the shell between the rocks so she could duck for cover if she needed to and continued looking around.

Part of the rock was spongy, and she poked it. It felt like the steel wool she and Jazz had used to scrub off each others’ finishes while they polished each other. Another kind of weed? It didn’t move… 

Another slow moving sea star was crawling along rock so steep it was like a cliff face. This one had more arms than the first, and was more colorful, but Prowl stayed at the bottom of the “cliff” rather than draw its attention. There were other things to look at anyway!

Tiny clusters of waving tendrils beckoned her. They looked like the weeds — were weeds — only small. New pillars in the making? Assuming nothing ate them first. They weren’t attached very well to the rock; Prowl wound up lifting one accidentally, and, unable to get it to stick again, was forced to let it go or float away with it.

Another fish darted by overhead and the tiny weed disappeared into its mouth. Well then…

She went back to get her shell before climbing over a cluster of midye. They were huge too, and she could see the threads that anchored them to the rocks. She yanked on one of them.  _ They _ were holding on hard! She saw the shells opening and closing around her. Forgetting about her protective shell, she tried getting closer to one of the open ones — there was  _ something _ shiny inside — only for it to snap closed so fast she nearly lost her fingers when she touched the shell! Fast critter!

Wow. This was  _ fantastic! _

She climbed over the midye, still looking for… something. A flat thing with segmented armor moved out from under her hand when she accidentally crawled on it. It was tinier than her! She worked her fingers underneath it to get a closer look… She saw lots of pairs of segmented legs and a pair of antennae before it curled up into an almost perfect, armored little sphere.

It stayed curled up as she turned it and stroked over its plating, unable to see where it would open again. And she’d watched it close up! But it was curled so smoothly on itself that once she lost the seam, she couldn’t find it again.

Setting it down gently, she poked at it again before stepping back to wait and see if it would come out on its own. Maybe if she didn’t disturb the water around it, it would think she had gone away and it was safe to come out — which it was, since all she wanted to do was look at it. Sure enough, it took a couple of kliks, but it unrolled itself, waving its little legs in the water for a moment before it flipped itself over. Prowl saw the antennae and a pair of optic-like spots before it quickly crawled back down into the tiny cracks between the midye around her.

A suction-cup covered arm reached out and grabbed her and Prowl looked up, panicked at the thought that another sea star had grabbed onto her. But it wasn’t a sea star; one of the bumps she’d thought was one of the midye flowed towards her, reforming itself into a wheke as big as she was. The suction cup covered arm wrapped almost gently around her arm and Prowl looked at it in wonder. Was this what she’d been looking for? She searched out its optics, looking for that spark of intelligence she’d seen before…

“Hello?” she said, the word dissolving in a plume of bubbles as it left her lips.

She was half expecting an answer, but didn’t get one. Instead the creature yanked her towards itself. Its optics were intelligent, true, but it was the intelligence of a predator looking for canny, well-hidden prey, and right now Prowl saw nothing in them but  _ hunger. _

She screamed and yanked her arm away. The wheke was strong, but its soft body released her and she scrambled away. She climbed over the midye, looking for where she’d left her protective shell.

The rapid, flowing movement of the wheke was suddenly intimidating rather than enchanting. Outrunning it was more like escaping the nijan than the star-creatures, and Prowl dove for her shell with a sense of relief when she found it — relief that turned out to be very short lived, because  _ unlike  _ the nijan, the wheke was able to curl its soft arms around and into the shell after her!

Her scream became a stream of bubbles and she hit and kicked at the questing tentacles as hard as she could. But the relentlessness she had so admired meant it wasn’t retreating. She was going to—

Her shell jerked and she screamed again as both she and the wheke were disturbed by another predator. They were pulled out of the water and the shell bounced and cracked as the wheke let go and dropped her to the rock. She curled up and whimpered.

The wheke dropped to the ground next to her a moment later. She could see the limp body.

More importantly, she could see the HUGE claws that pawed at the dead wheke for a moment before batting gently at the shell she was hiding in. She tried to pull back deeper inside, but it was hopeless. There was no way her — now cracked — shelter would hold up against a predator that big!

The view of giant claws was replaced by the view of the biggest optic she could possibly imagine. It was bigger than her head!

“And what are you doing in there?” came a voice so big it was hard to even hear properly. “You’re not a papa’i…” The creature batted at the shell again, and laughed. “Well I suppose it makes sense… they do say that curiosity killed the cat…”

_ …but satisfaction brought it back… _

Prowl gasped awake in Jazz’s arms.

_ A dream.  _ She’d been dreaming, exploring the tide pools in miniature… looking for her spirit guide, she realized… only to find a bunch of things that wanted to eat her! Including the wheke she’d  _ thought  _ might be her guide. What had the last creature been? It had been too big to get a good look at, but it had saved her…

“Prowl? Y’okay?”

“I… I think so,” Prowl answered a bit shakily. “Just had a strange dream.”

“Yeah?” Jazz petted Prowl gently. “Y’wanna talk about it?”

“Was just a little scary when I didn’t know I was dreamin’.” Now that she did know, she was alright. She wasn’t being hunted by sea creatures, she was snuggled up safe in the sand with Jazz. The moment of panic passed, and Prowl relaxed back against her. “‘M okay.”

“‘Kay,” Jazz murmured, holding her as they fell back asleep in the sand.

.

.

.

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

Jazz was playing the shell horn again. Prowl looked up from the jewelry she was working on to see her standing at the edge of the water, dancing in the surf. The blue edge of her sarong was soaked through and her black hikurere fluttered with every breeze. She smiled, then focused again on her work.

Kelapa shells were apparently common to use in making jewelry: cut up, carved, and polished, they could be transformed into beautiful pendants and medallions. The curve of the shell gave dimension to the larger pieces, and burnishing the surface revealed subtle color variations that were quite pretty. Jazz had shown her a necklace with several kelapa charms strung with shells, and gone over the steps with her for making her very own charm.

So far Prowl had dismembered one half of the shell, breaking it up into pieces for several small and a few medium sized charms. The second half she was saving to see if she could make it into beads, and in the meantime it served as a good bowl to hold her unfinished work. The process was slow and tedious, but in a way familiar and relaxing. This was the kind of fine detail work Prowl actually had some experience with thanks to her magecraft, and she was looking forward to surprising Jazz with her efforts.

With a few more careful slices, Prowl brushed away the flaky curls of shell clinging to the marks she’d made and held up the oblong disk for a better look. She had decided to carve this piece into a likeness of the little round creature she’d dreamed of, and the lines flowing around it looked just like the overlapping plates when it curled into a ball. She’d embossed each seam just enough to give the pendant texture, and, though she’d struggled a bit with the symmetry at first, was pleased with the result. All that was left to do was polish it and drill a hole so it could be strung.

Jazz’s tiny drills were fascinating. She had two. One was a Praxan made steel drill. It cut beautiful, neat tiny holes, but Prowl could see it starting to rust away from the rigors of life on the sea. The other was thicker, harder to use and made wider holes, but the bronze was pristine.

It was… Prowl thought it an interesting comparison. Bronze was more primitive than steel, and the esteem with which Polyhexians held steel objects (especially sharpened steel edges!) certainly supported its worth. But for every steel knife or drill Jazz had, she kept at least one bronze backup, and Prowl could see why. Bronze was much more corrosion resistant!

Prowl knew Jazz rather expected her to choose to use the tiny steel drill to make the holes in her charms and beads, but she chose the bronze one. Just to see how well it worked.

She had only just started to drill her hole when Jazz gave a triumphant yell.

“Prowl!” Jazz came running up the beach. “Prowl! Pack it up — we’re headed out.” She smiled at the charm in Prowl’s hands.

Prowl blinked, taken a bit aback by the abrupt announcement. Jazz hadn’t said anything about leaving today! Of course, she hadn’t said anything about staying, either. “Does it have t’be right now?” she asked, wanting to at least finish drilling. That wasn’t something she’d be able to do on a moving boat without ruining the piece.

“Now, yes!” Jazz said, gathering Prowl’s pieces into the kelapa shell. “Someone answered m’call. We gotta go meet up with ‘em!”

“Your — what?” She’d been  _ calling  _ with those songs? “Who were ya callin’?” Obviously not her rescuers; Arcee wouldn’t know what that horn was anymore than Prowl had. Which meant she must have been calling other Polyhexians… but why?

Jazz had said they’d stay along the coast!

“Callin’ fer someone who might have trade goods,” Jazz grinned. The last of the pieces were stowed in the shell and Jazz’s tools were wrapped in flexible water resistant cloth to protect them.

Trade goods? Curiosity swept aside Prowl’s budding concern. What sorts of things could Jazz want to trade for? Excitement buzzed in her EM field. Whatever it was, it would be new to her! “We comin’ back here?” she asked, though it didn’t look like Jazz planned to.

“Nope!” Jazz said exuberantly, pulling Prowl to her feet. “We gotta sort out what we want t’trade before we meet up. Come on!”

Prowl followed as Jazz tugged her toward the catamaran, bidding a silent farewell to the island. She would have enjoyed getting to swim out to the other little islands and investigating them, or getting to try the kopapa again, or working on the jewelry some more. Oh well. Maybe they would find another island. Right now she just needed to make sure Jazz didn’t try to trade away any of the things she wanted to keep!

Jazz bounded into the sea to swim out to the catamaran without hesitation. Prowl took only a moment to secure her hidden spell components so they would stay dry, then followed. Jazz pulled her out of the water and onto the boat when she reached it and left her to settle herself while she hauled up the anchor and prepared the boat to sail.

There didn’t appear to be anyone else out on the sea; the sound of the horn must carry farther than Prowl could see. She hadn’t heard anyone else while Jazz was playing, but she also hadn’t known to listen. All her attention had been on the kelapa shell, and Jazz’s horn-playing just music. Now, sitting in her usual spot on the deck beside the mast, Prowl strained to hear the trader Jazz said was out there signalling their location.

When the first notes came from  _ behind  _ her, Prowl turned around to face the mainland. Why would anyone be answering Jazz from the shore?

It seemed the same thing had caught Jazz by surprise too. Her head whipped around and she stared, slack jawed at the coast. “That ain’t who I was talkin’ to before.” She listened for a few kliks, then chuckled. “M’twin,” she said sheepishly. “She’s a bit cross with me. I’m gittin’ yelled at fer leavin’ ‘er behind.”

“Yer twin?” Jazz’s twin had followed them all this way to yell at her? That took more than being a bit cross! “She must be real mad t’do somethin’ like that.”

“Eh,” Jazz shrugged. “Probably. She’s helpin’ yer rescuers.” She tilted her head and grinned. “Awww… she’s found ‘erself ‘er mate! S’good news.”

“Y’can tell all  _ that  _ just from th’song?” Prowl was impressed, besides being surprised to hear that Ricochet had been helping Arcee. That was actually pretty impressive too, considering her intended’s poor opinion of Polyhexians… She must have been really desperate. Jazz’s last words kept her from dwelling on that and feeling bad, however. “Whaddaya mean she’s found ‘er mate? She kidnappin’ someone too?”

“Not yet,” Jazz said, maneuvering the boat out to sea, where the other call apparently had come from. “She needs th’kattumaram first. We can stay on one’a th’islands while she’s got it.” She pushed one more time with the oar and then let down the sail. “There we go.”

Or she would be back in Praxus with Arcee and Jazz would be… wherever she was, Prowl thought as she watched the mainland shrinking in the distance. Maybe whoever Ricochet had found — and they almost certainly had to be Praxan too, if it was someone in the rescue party — would be able to take an island mate, but she couldn’t.

If only she didn’t feel pulled in two directions at once, simultaneously back to shore and out to sea. “Y’ain’t gonna say anything back ta ‘er?” she asked quietly, trying to distract herself.

“Gotta tie down th’sail first,” Jazz said, concentrating on the catamaran.

When Jazz was finished, she smiled at Prowl and lifted the shell-horn to her lips.

Prowl listened for some hint of the language that  _ must _ be hidden in the notes, but it didn’t sound any different than it had this morning while Jazz had been dancing in the waves. However the communication was done, it was well disguised to the untrained audio. It was also still beautiful, though the thought that Jazz and Ricochet (when her horn joined her twin’s once more) might be cursing each other out with those lovely melodies had her trying to smother the giggles she felt bordering on the edge of hysteria.

“What’re ya tellin’ her?” she asked once she got herself under control.

Jazz finished the long note she was warbling. “How perfect y’are. She says I’m a blind, romantic, impulsive moron.”

Prowl laughed. “How nice’a her.”

“Yep!” Jazz did not seem at all put off by her twin’s words… notes…. whatever. Must be how they communicated on a regular basis. Prowl didn’t have anyone in her life she spoke to that way, but she’d seen close friends in the guard who, if you only listened to what they said and not how they said it, seemed to hate each other.

She was tempted to ask if Jazz would say something for her to Arcee with the music, but thought better of it before she spoke. Even if she did relay — what? What would she even say? — her message, she probably wouldn’t be happy about it. And it might make her start being more cautious again, which would make escaping that much harder. If Ricochet was with Arcee, then that meant her rescuers were close, and would stay close. All she needed was an opportunity… In the meantime, there was nothing she could do but enjoy seeing whatever the trader had to offer.

Jazz and Ricochet kept warbling back and forth for a while, and whatever they were saying, Jazz was (somehow!) even happier when she turned her attention to their goods. Prowl took the opportunity to put her spell components back underneath the hikurere. Eventually Jazz turned back to her with the bundle she recognized as the one Jazz kept pulling gifts for her from.

“Here. We don’t have a long way t’go before we meet up with th’other kattumaram. Wind’s comin’ off th’shore right now. It’ll carry us downwind quickly.”

“I don’t know what any’a this stuff’s worth,” Prowl protested. She didn’t know what the other boat might have that she’d be really interested in either. “I like th’Poly dice with th’pictures though. Those stay. So’s what I’m wearin’.” Because she was  _ not  _ giving up the hikurere! Or the sarongs, which might not be hiding any magical secrets, but which she liked wearing.

“Right,” Jazz confirmed. She handed the dice box over to Prowl. “Pick out th’ones y’don’t want. They’re all red, so we’ll be able t’git somethin’ ya  _ do _ like fer ‘em.” She started digging through other stuff, stuff from the bundle Prowl hadn’t seen yet, sorting it. There seemed to be some sort of method to what she was doing, so Prowl left her to it and concentrated on the dice.

Pulling out the plastic Praxan dice was easy, and Prowl set those aside first. Then she started being more discriminating about the Polyhexian dice, just in case. It would take something pretty special to make her be willing to give any of them up, but it was always a possibility.

Jazz swept one of her piles back into the bundle then looked over at Prowl. Seeing her done, she grinned. She pulled the bundled gifts towards Prowl and reached in.

“Gonna have’ta take these away when we’re back closer t’shore,” Jazz murmured, “but fer now…” She withdrew a set of six, beautifully decorated, bronze knives. Prowl recognized the long, thin, curved fish-boning knife, the short, straight, fat twist-pry knife, and the short, very thin, almost rounded hole-poking knife. Jazz held them out to Prowl.

She let her fingers trail over the three knives she knew, but she settled on the three knives she didn’t know. Two were thicker, more powerful knives with strong handles, with one smaller but thicker than the other that had a set of serrated tooth like structures forged on the side opposite the blade. The third was a truly odd shape indeed: the whole thing was shaped like Jazz’s kopapa board, with the sharp edge along one long edge and the handle along the other. “What are these?”

Jazz held out the biggest, but thinnest, blade. “This’s a hunting knife. Fer carving up larger kills.” She set that with the others and showed Prowl the smaller, thicker knife with the dulled serrated edge. “S’a digging knife.” She touched the serrated teeth sitting opposite the sharp edge. “Fer cutting  _ ohe _ inta pieces t’build with. This one,” she held out the strange board-shaped blade, with handle sitting perpendicular to the edge, “s’called an  _ ulu,” _ for the first time in cycles she reverted to the trade argot for a translation, “cut-everything villager’s knife? S’fer,” she switched back to Polyhexian, “everything else.” Handsy as ever, she attached the sheathed knives to Prowl by tying the trailing ends of soft string or rope around her legs and hips. They were mostly covered by the sarong, but when Prowl flipped the cloth back to look she saw that she was now wearing the knives exactly like Jazz wore hers.

She then pulled a smaller bundle from the gifts, though she didn’t open it. “Bead crafter’s tools. Yer own set.” Then a small box.  _ “Tangohia ake. _ Stick game.” Another box. “Glass beads. Shell beads. Pearls. Ivory. Bone. Kelapa shell charms. Crystals. Sinew string.” A large shell-horn, longer and thinner than Jazz’s, with the brown parts of the shell painted over with gold leaf.  _ “Tetere _ — calling horn.” A small, thin tube accompanied by a bundle of black and white kina spines. “Blowgun an’ darts.” A looped rope cord with a wide cloth pocket in the center with a bag of round stones. “Huntin’ sling.” A cloth bundle. “Yer own polishing kit.” A hard yellow block. “Extra wax.” Three different waist and shoulder pouches, which Jazz didn’t bother naming. An intricate tapestry blanket showing a kopapa rider inside the tunnel created by a wave so big Prowl could hardly imagine it existed, much less that it could be ridden like Jazz had taught her. A tarp. Rope. A Praxan compass, with a decorative inlay of shells. And finally a variety of midye and remis shells, bound closed rather than left open. “Paints. Fer beads. Red. Yellow. Blue. Black. White.” She pointed to each one. “Fer cloth. Red. Blue. Yellow. Green. Purple. Copper. Black. White. Fer plating. Black. White. Red. Green. Yellow. Blue. Catalyst.” The final one she picked up and held almost reverently. “Wake-light fish ink.” She paused. “Anything here y’want ta trade away?”

Prowl caressed the wake-light fish ink shell with similar care and shook her head. “Not that,” she said firmly. That was definitely not getting traded away. Neither was she eager to part with the knives or jewelry tools, interesting (and practical!) as they were. The actual jewelry making supplies though… some of those weren’t as interesting as others, and neither were some of the paints, if she had to choose. Jazz still had a lot of other things to trade though, so perhaps she wouldn’t. “Maybe this?” she said, picking up the compass. It was very pretty, and looked different to most of the ones she was used to seeing. “What kinds’a shells’re these?”

They were a variety of iridescent colors, similar to but brighter than pearls. “Paua shell,” Jazz said stroking the inlay. “Y’sure? Skyside always shows north, but there’re gonna be times when y’can’t see th’sky. I know y’don’t want Praxan things, but Polyhexians don’t make ‘em and a compass is always a useful thing t’have.”

“True. And I don’t mean I wanna get rid of it,” Prowl explained, tilting the compass to watch the the paua shell shimmer. “Only if there’s somethin’ else I like more’n I have to. Kinda hope there ain’t,” she admitted, the idea of trading away the compass becoming less attractive the longer she looked at it. “‘S really pretty.”

“Paua’re,” Jazz paused then made a demonstrative gesture, like a bowl, “shaped things. They live in rocky areas. Very good t’eat, but rare. They grow,” she held her hands just a little less wide than her waist, “about that big, and th’shells’re very bright. Some priest-mages inlay their armor with ‘em. Warriors don’t. We trade it.”

“Why not use it fer warrior armor?” Prowl asked, feeling over the inlay. It felt strong enough in the compass, but then a compass wasn’t likely to get much use repelling knives and harpoons. “Too brittle?”

“Right!” Jazz was certainly happy with Prowl’s deduction. “So smart! Good mate!”

Prowl thought her reaction might be a bit excessive, but she let it, and the compass, go. She had other things she’d rather talk about. “What’s  _ tangohia ake?” _ she asked, reaching for the stick game. “How d’ya play?”

“Y’throw ‘em on th’ground, then take turns collectin’ ‘em without disturbin’ th’rest’a th’pile.” Jazz grinned. “But they ain’t all worth th’same number’a points when yer all done collectin… or when th’pile’s disturbed.”

A game of manual dexterity then! Prowl grinned. The motion of the catamaran would make it a challenge, but that didn’t stop her from asking, “We got time t’try it?”

“After we’re headed back t’shore.” Jazz petted Prowl’s chevron. “We’ll play.”

“‘Kay.” Prowl hoped that meant they’d be meeting up with the other boat soon. She still couldn’t see it, but a moment later she heard the other horn again, this time more clearly. They had to be close.

A short series of tetere exchanges later, Prowl finally spotted the shape of a sail on the horizon. It grew larger as the other boat got closer, and more and more details came into focus until Prowl could see the other Polyhexian on the deck, expertly bringing his catamaran alongside theirs. He was a mech, probably not much taller than Jazz, with waxy white and red paint. There weren’t any glowing blue lines on his plating, but he did have some tribal markings in a matte black. Since he was sailing, he wasn’t wearing much in the way of ornamentation, just his gear (and some tooth-and-shell jewelry) the way Jazz did.

When he was close enough, Jazz and the other mech each threw ropes to each other to temporarily tether them together, then met in the middle for an enthusiastic hug.

“Stepper!” Jazz exclaimed happily when they pulled apart. “Good t’see ya!”

“Likewise — though this ain’t how I figured on findin’ ya! What ‘appened t’yer twin? She sprout wings?” he said with a teasing look at Prowl.

“Not yet,” Jazz purred. “She’s workin’ on gittin’ her own later. This is m’resonant mate, Prowl.”

“Oho! So  _ that’s  _ why it took ya so long! She’s a Prax!” Stepper didn’t look like he had a problem with Prowl not being Polyhexian, but he did seem surprised. It made Prowl wonder how common taking an outland mate was; not very, if she had to hazard a guess. “Rico too, huh?”

“Yep,” Jazz grinned, showing her teeth. “Surprised me too! Ricochet! She weren’t even  _ looking. _ Pass it along t’Meister an’ Marshal fer me, will ya? Prowl an’ me’re gonna be stuck somewhere while Rico uses th’kattumaram.” She turned and held her hand out to Prowl to help her up. “Come, say hi. This is Stepper. He’s a cad. Warrior fer th’Bluethorn Island tribe. Bluethorn Island’s close t’Rainclouds Island’n we end up raiding each other at least once a war season.”

“She even understand any’a that? Didn’t think most Prax spoke Polyhexian!”

“Don’t,” Prowl told him as she took Jazz’s hand. “But I ain’t most Prax.”

“She’s  _ very _ smart,” Jazz said happily. “She’s a priest-mage, an’ a food-finder… She’s good at  _ everything _ once she learns t’do it.”

Jazz was bragging again, but this time it was  _ about _ Prowl instead of  _ to _ her. It felt nice, and Prowl smiled at the flattery. “Nah, ‘m just too curious fer my own good,” she said with a sidelong look at Jazz. “So, yer friends when y’ain’t raidin’ against each other?”

“Ain’t a point in holdin’ a grudge,” Stepper shrugged. “Yer messages said y’were lookin’ fer someone with trade goods. What’cha need? Come have a look.”

“Prowl?” Jazz guided her onto Stepper’s catamaran. “Go ahead’n take a look.”

Prowl was pleased with how well she managed to step between the two boats; pleased enough to ignore Stepper’s blatant stage whisper to Jazz of “Ohhh, yer tryin’ ta find more pretties fer her!” and the quick “Shut it!” she tossed back with a laugh. Looking around the similar yet unfamiliar vessel, the first thing Prowl’s optics landed on was a woven soft-sided basket. Jazz didn’t have anything like it, unless it was hidden away in the cargo hull, but she’d seen baskets like them in Hightower. This one had a loosely-woven lid on it, and what looked like the corner of a blanket peeking out from under it.

What…?

_ Mew! _

“Oh!” Prowl was beside the basket in an instant, carefully lifting up the lid to look inside. Three juvenile cybercats squirmed in the sudden light, though they couldn’t possibly see with their optics still dark and undeveloped. Their ears were still folded protectively down and their plating looked as pliable as sail cloth. So very young. They must have been harvested from their hot spot no more than a kilocycle ago.

“Kittens!” she heard Jazz say behind her. “What’re’ya doin’ with kittens on a boat this small?”

“Hopin’ t’run inta bigger boats,” Stepper answered simply.

Prowl reached into the basket to stroke over the silver-striped plating of the nearest little cybercat. It mewed and burrowed deeper into the blanket lining the basket, and she let it. The next one was already batting at her fingers, teeny paws with even teenier claws leaving faint scratch lines in her finish. It looked like it wanted to play, but something about the third one…

Black with tiny silver spots, its face was turned away from her. Prowl shuffled around the basket, fingers curled in anticipation on the edge. This one— “What are you doing in there?” she breathed softly, echoing the words of the  _ cybercat  _ from her dream.

“Napping,” the little kitten answered, turning its black head to squint up at her with unseeing optics. “Like any reasonable creature.”

Prowl’s fingers tightened on the basket. “You—!”

It huffed. “Well if you insist, you can feed me instead.”

Feed it? Feed it what? She didn’t have anything… “What do they eat?” she asked Jazz, not taking her optics off the kitten. “I need to feed—” the words popped up in her processor like they’d always been there and she’d only needed to know where to look “—Lady Sundance of Greenfields.”

Jazz came over to look into the basket with the kittens. “That young… liquid energon’n mineral paste. She tell ya ‘er name?” She exchanged a significant glance with Stepper.

Who huffed. “Make an offer.”

“Got a set’a Praxan steel knives t’trade,” Jazz answered. “Should be enough fer th’kitten. Couple’a  _ matching _ red Praxan dice should be enough fer a few meals fer a hungry kitten.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, then Stepper laughed. “Ain’t like I was gonna keep them apart, yeah?”

Only half-listening to the conversation, Prowl collected the kitten into her hands and lifted her from the basket to cuddle against her chest. “I’ll feed you as soon as I have something for you,” she promised, rubbing her thumb over one precious folded ear.

She didn’t even notice as Jazz scampered back to her own boat to retrieve the promised items. She did notice Stepper pressing a small bowl of energon and a towel into her hand. “Dip th’cloth in th’fuel t’soak a bit’a it up, then let th’kitten suck on it,” he said gently. “And congratulations Prowl.”

“Congratulations?” Prowl repeated, confused. The directions for feeding were simple enough though, and she dipped the corner of the towel into the bowl and watched it darken with the fuel before lifting it back out and bringing it to the kitten’s mouth. “Here you go,” she told her. “What do you think?”

The kitten — Lady Sundance? — sucked the fuel from the cloth. “It’ll do,” she meowed up at Prowl. “More.”

“Of course.” Prowl dipped the corner again for her, settling into a routine. “Jazz?”

“Hmm?” Jazz looked over from where she was counting out the plastic red dice into Stepper’s hands. “Somethin’ wrong, beautiful?”

“No…” Far from wrong, this felt incredibly right. It was just so unexpected! And yet, she’d been looking… “I just wasn’t expectin’ this. She ain’t gonna be a problem, is she?” They didn’t have a basket for her, and Jazz had said something about cybercats and small boats. “There somethin’ wrong with havin’ ‘er on a small boat?”

“Ain’t a problem  _ at all, _ beautiful,” Jazz laughed. “Ship cats’re good things t’have. We’ll just have’ta find some extra fuel fer when she can’t find enough vermin t’hunt.” She and Stepper bickered for a klik on exactly how many dice the fuel was worth, with Stepper earning an extra one. Jazz smiled back at Prowl. “Knew we couldn’t be that different, beautiful.”

“She really is my spirit guide then?” Prowl felt her EM field should be visible with how happy she was.

“She ain’t talking t’us,” Stepper cackled. Jazz hit him lightly.

“Y’knew ‘er name, beautiful.” Jazz said confidently. “It don’t git more definite than that.”

“Y’mean ya can’t hear her?” Prowl hadn’t even thought about that, but now that she was listening, Lady Sundance’s  _ mew!  _ of protest for taking too long to dip the towel again sounded like a perfectly ordinary cat cry — that she still understood like the kitten was speaking her own native language.

“Of course they can hear me,” Sundance meowed. “They just don’t need to know what I’m saying. Why are you letting that stop you from feeding me?”

“I’m sorry,” Prowl said — meowed! — back, bringing the re-soaked towel back to her mouth. She clung to the fabric with her little claws, and Prowl had to unhook her before she could repeat the process.

“No, we can’t hear ‘er, beautiful,” Jazz (unintentionally) repeated Sundance’s confirmation. “She’s yer guide, not ours. She came in a form that’ll be part’a yer magic. Even if we were shipcats too — and I happen t’know Stepper’s a  _ tarakona _ — we wouldn’t be able t’hear  _ yer _ guide.”

That made sense, more or less. Especially the part about Lady Sundance being tied to her magic. She was too little for it right now, but Prowl knew it was possible for mages to channel spells through a familiar instead of a bonded object. It made what Jazz did seem even more like magic to her, though she claimed to  _ be  _ a fishing cat, not to have one as her familiar. It wasn’t worth trying to have a discussion about right now, since it would probably be similarly difficult to the conversation about writing and Prowl didn’t want to inconvenience Stepper with something like that, but it did leave her with one question.

“What’s a tarakona?”

“‘S’a little pack mechanimal. Predators. Scavengers,” Jazz showed her teeth with a vicious grin. “Cowards.”

Stepper hit Jazz across the shoulder. Then he shrugged. “She’s right though. Tarakona don’t fight battles they can’t win.”

“Maybe that’s just them bein’ smart ‘bout pickin’ their fights,” Prowl said diplomatically. Jazz gave Prowl an utterly betrayed look. “She needs a basket, or some kinda bed’n shelter.” The lid Stepper had placed back over the other cyberkittens let air through, but kept the sun from beating down too hot on their delicate plating. Pulling a blanket over Lady Sundance on the sleeping pad would do the same, but she’d be far too easy to step on by accident if they couldn’t see her in its folds. “Ya got anything?”

“Three dice,” Stepper said. With an explosive sigh, Jazz handed over the last of the dice. “Pleasure doin’ business with ya, Jazz,” Stepper crowed, digging out a blanket and a small basket from his cargo. Jazz stuck her tongue out at the other Polyhexian’s back, and Prowl smothered a giggle behind her towel.

“Thank you,” she said when Stepper brought it over and placed it beside her, but she didn’t put Sundance down into it. “And thank  _ you,”  _ she said to Jazz, smiling brightly.

“Y’see anythin’ else y’want, Prowl?” Jazz asked, just as brightly. “We still have a few things. Git somethin’ pretty maybe.”

“I didn’t even look!” Prowl had gone straight to the basket and that had been that. “What sort’a things ya got?”

Stepper chuckled. “Well, if it’s pretties yer lookin’ fer,” he gestured to the other boxes and baskets he’d set out on the deck, “there’s th’selection. Maybe these,” he suggested, nudging one crate forward with his foot. “Y’don’t seem t’have much in th’way’a jewelry on.”

“I was making some,” Prowl said absently, shifting Lady Sundance and the towel in her arms so she could sift through the contents of the crate with one hand. “Like these ones.” The kelapa shell necklaces and charms were nice, but not something she felt a real need for. She kept going, hoping to find something else.

There were pieces made of all sorts of materials: shell and bone, glass and stone. Some of them were quite lovely, and all of them looked exotic to her, so different from the things she wore at court. Those all had a great deal of twisted wire and gemstones, not cord and beads. And definitely not fabric! Prowl picked up the bracelet she’d just found, similar to the ones Jazz had already given her but with the addition of large carved beads strung over the wound strips of cloth.

“What’re the carvings of?” They looked like they might be mechanimals, but they were so stylized Prowl wasn’t sure what each was meant to be.

“‘S’a story,” Stepper said, coming over to look at what she’d found. “Kokako annoys Wheke. Should also have another like that, with insecticons on it. Great monsters that terrorized th’islands in seasons past.” He dug through the bracelets until he came up with the one he was remembering with an “Aka!” of triumph. “Here y’are.”

Prowl took it, turning the bracelets to see all of the beads. It was easy to see which ones were meant to be insecticons — they were an occasional scourge on the mainland as well — and now that she had the story for the first, she was able to resolve the carvings into a bird and a wheke, sometimes separate, sometimes crowded into the same picture.

Looked like Kokako nearly got himself eaten by yet another creature he’d gotten too brazen with.

“I like these,” Prowl announced, looking to Jazz to see if it was alright. They seemed fancy to her, but (fortunately) she wasn’t the one doing the bargaining.

Listening to them bargain was fascinating. They bickered, they offered and counter offered. They even stopped at — seemingly entirely random times — to tell stories and gossip to each other. Prowl sat back and fed Lady Sundance until she turned her nose up at the towel and insisted it was nap time again, at which point Prowl put the remaining fuel away for later and cuddled her as she snoozed.

This time it seemed that Jazz had gotten the better deal when the haggling session wrapped up, because as she handed over the rest of the things she had sorted out to trade, Stepper didn’t just wave to indicate the the bracelets were now Prowl’s but also began pulling more things from his cargo.

Prowl looked at Jazz in question.

“We’re restockin’ on fuel too. ‘E’s got some interestin’ things y’might like,” Jazz smiled. “Y’also git t’pick out one more pretty.”

“Yeah?” Well in that case… Prowl went back to her one-armed search, passing over glass beads and kelapa charms until she found a long strand of tiny shells. It looked almost too long at first, but then she realized it was meant to be looped multiple times. Like the white shell necklace Jazz wore that appeared to be three strands, only instead of being all white, these were varying shades of creams and light pinks.

Even if she got a chance to work on the kelapa jewelry some more, she was never going to be able to make a necklace like this before returning home. Decision made, Prowl picked it up and smiled at Jazz. “It’ll look nice with th’other red stuff, won’t it?”

Stepper looked at it dubiously and even opened his mouth to say something, but Jazz not-so-subtly stomped on his foot. “‘S’a perfect choice, beautiful,” Jazz praised. “‘S gorgeous.”

“Help me put it on? I’d do it, but,” Prowl looked down at the sleeping Sundance, “cat.”

“Right.” Jazz took the long strand and laid it over Prowl’s head, then looped it a second time, this time taking the time to caress Prowl’s neck and chest as she ran her fingers over the smooth shell beads. Then a third, adding a kiss, pressing her mouth against Prowl’s, to the caress. “Yer beautiful,” she murmured against Prowl’s lips. “With or without th’beads.”

Prowl’s field flushed with pleasure. “Feel prettier with ‘em,” she murmured back.

“Lies,” Jazz whispered. “Can’t be prettier. But y’look like y’enjoy ‘em; s’all that matters.”

“Just listen t’th’pair’a ya,” Stepper chuckled. “Y’make a cute couple.”

“Don’t mean I’m goin’ easy on ya in a couple’a lunar cycles,” Jazz said, without missing a beat. Nor did she look away from Prowl’s optics. “Cat versus dog… that’s a pretty short fight, an’ ya’ll run off with yer tail between yer legs like always.” She pressed another kiss to Prowl’s lips. “‘E’s just being a brat. Ignore ‘im. Yer th’only cute one in this couple.”

“Yer sayin’ yer not cute?” Prowl didn’t believe that. Not when she’d seen Jazz’s excitement at showing her things, the way she reveled in the water, and the way she curled up beside her to sleep. Jazz was adorable.

“I suppose I am if y’say I am,” Jazz purred.

Stepper made a sound like one of his tires backfiring. Jazz glared at him. “Y’two’re dripping that on m’boat. Shove off. Pretty thing like ya, yer clan’s gotta still be chasin’ ya and I don’t wanna be caught in th’crossfire.” Jazz scoffed. “Fine,” Stepper admitted. “Wouldn’t mind an excuse t’flex m’claws durin’ th’harvest season.  _ Shouldn’t _ be caught in th’crossfire. Shove off.”

Jazz laughed, but she turned to Prowl. “Y’ready t’go?”

“Guess so.” Prowl checked that both her new bracelets were secure around her wrist, then picked up the basket for Lady Sundance. “Y’got th’rest’a her food?”

“Yep!”

“Then we’re ready.”

Jazz bounded from Stepper’s boat to her own and immediately started stowing everything. Prowl, somewhat more slowly, made her way back across the gap as well. Instead of settling on the deck, this time she walked all the way over to the sleeping pad and sat down to start fussing with a place for the basket. As soon as she was satisfied, she gently transferred the cyberkitten into it and tucked the blanket in around her. The blanket Stepper had sold her to go with the basket looked like it was actually a large scrap of blanket, rather than a small one meant for this purpose, but Prowl supposed that little kitten claws could potentially ruin whatever she was nesting in so she didn’t mind. It wasn’t like they’d been ripped off; they had only traded three mass-produced plastic dice for the basket and blanket both.

Lady Sundance didn’t care if it was only a large scrap; she burrowed into the folds, and Prowl closed the basket to protect her from the sun.

She looked up to see Jazz watching her with a small, enigmatic smile on her face. She still hadn’t brought up the sail, even as Stepper’s had unfurled and taken him swiftly away.

“What?” Prowl asked, wondering what Jazz was thinking to cause such an expression. “What is it?”

“I,” Jazz said confidently, “am th’luckiest femme in th’history’a ever.”

Prowl flushed again, still amazed that someone as remarkable as Jazz could be so happy with her. Even when she wasn’t  _ doing  _ anything.

Unable to think of anything to say to that, Prowl just pulled her new blanket — the one with the kopapa rider — up over her legs and lay down while Jazz set sail. Maybe she’d join Lady Sundance in a nap.

.

.

.

Drift had been preparing to take the dogs out on another hunting run when both they and Ricochet turned their heads to the sea.

“The horn again?” Arcee asked, looking up from the latest crude travel rations she was lashing together. They tasted terrible and made her feel slightly ill when she thought about what was in them, but they would keep them fueled to continue the chase. Was it time to take it up again? “Is she staying another cycle?”

“I don’t know yet,” Smokescreen shrugged. “If it’s only just started, she’s probably listening to see if there’s a difference from the usual call.”

More waiting. Somehow it was more difficult to wait when a possible end was in sight than when they knew Jazz wasn’t going to move. Arcee finished tying the rations into an easily transportable bundle and stood, forcing herself not to pace. She could hear the music now, though of course it sounded the same as ever to her — alien and incomprehensible. And faint. Even after three cycles of attuning her audios to the sound, she couldn’t pick up more than a whisper of sound.

Not so incomprehensible to their guide, however. Something about the notes had Ricochet smiling, listening for a moment longer before turning to Smokescreen to babble at him rapidly.

“She’s moving, isn’t she?” Arcee guessed based on the merchant’s expression. “Someone is answering her this time.”

“Yes,” he confirmed between words to Ricochet. “They’re going to rendezvous out at sea.”

“Which means we likely won’t see her departing,” Drift said. “We might see her making her way back toward the shore, but this is not a good location to see anything but the island itself.”

Arcee nodded. They’d discussed their options if Jazz headed out to sea before coming in again and decided the best plan of action was to find a high vantage point to watch for the catamaran. She wouldn’t be running at the same breakneck pace as before, and once they knew where she was angling to harbor they could catch up again. Assuming all went well, anyway.

Which, naturally, it didn’t.

“Hey!” Arcee exclaimed as Ricochet, without any warning, grabbed the horn from her side and started playing. “What are you doing?” If they didn’t need to harry Jazz off the island, it would be better  _ not  _ to announce how close they were! Arcee’s protest didn’t stop Ricochet though. She continued to play, heedless of the trouble announcing their presence would cause.

Sure the damage had been done with the first couple notes (and not interested in a fight with the island warrior), Arcee stayed put rather than trying to wrench the instrument out of her hand. “Will she run again now?” she asked, trying not to sound too dejected.

Smokescreen shrugged. He babbled something, but was shooshed by Ricochet as she continued to play.

The notes were surprisingly beautiful. Arcee had expected that crude horn to create simple, loud  _ blats; _ instead the sounds were melodious, scaling up and down an unexpectedly large range to create a song that was exquisitely delicate.

Ricochet paused to listen, then laughed and answered.

Smokescreen tried again to find out what was going on, and this time Ricochet told him.

“So, ah, apart from taking the time to say several unflattering things to each other,” Smokescreen said when she had finished, “she confirmed that yes, Jazz is meeting with a trader out on the water, and won’t be returning to the island.”

“Those have to be the most musical insults I’ve ever heard,” Hot Rod remarked before Arcee shot him a glance to shut him up.

“Not returning to the island was expected. What we need to know is whether or not she’s going to bolt again after she finishes whatever trading she’s doing.” It probably wouldn’t alter their course, but it would impact how fast they had to drive and how often they could rest.

Another round of babble later and Smokescreen turned to Arcee and shrugged. “Jazz didn’t say. She was too busy,” he paused, “yelling back at her twin.” Smokescreen said something else to Ricochet and then made a rather frustrated sound. “Ricochet honestly doesn’t know if she’ll run.”

“Then we assume she will,” Arcee said with grim determination. “Better we wind up ahead of her than find ourselves struggling to keep up. Pack up, everyone — it’s time to break camp and find ourselves an overlook.”

.

.

.

“Here,” Jazz said as she came back over to Prowl from the cargo hull bearing a small ovoid. “Ya’ll like this one.” She sat cross-legged in front of Prowl and offered it to her.

“Forget that and play with me!” Sundance meowed at Prowl from her basket.

“I can do both,” Prowl told the little kitten, wiggling the end of one of the cords from her jewelry supplies over the edge of the basket for her to bat at. She wasn’t very good at it, probably because her optics still weren’t on. “What is it?” she asked Jazz.

“Incubation capsules fer a gliding glitchmouse,” Jazz answered. “Their sparks settle in hotspots on th’islands. We eat ‘em when we find ‘em.”

They were anchored just off the main shore again. Prowl could see it. She could Shadow Jump to it, barely, but she didn’t yet. If she did, Jazz would see her and find her immediately. She had a plan, she needed to follow it.

Playing along again like escape was the last thing on her mind, Prowl took the ovoid from Jazz and looked at it curiously. “Are ya s’pposed t’eat it in one bite?” The shell, while smaller than the one Jazz used to mould gelled energon, looked too large to to just pop in her mouth and swallow.

“Gotta crack th’shell,” Jazz informed her. “Fangs or th’twist-pry knife.”

“Ain’t got fangs,” Prowl said with a fang-less smile. She wiggled the string one more time for Sundance, then set it down so she could draw the twist-pry knife from the sheath still tied to her leg and use it to crack open the capsule. Her first attempts were too delicate, but eventually she got through the outer shell.

The fuel inside was a heavy liquid, glowing faintly blue and filled with construction nanites. Actually, it tasted like a very thick, viscous, medgrade! “Yer right,” Prowl said between sips. “I do like it. ‘S kinda like a special fuel in Praxus.”

“Pro~wl! It stopped moving!” Sundance yowled. Prowl sheathed the knife and took up the string again, dragging it along the blanket scrap and over her paws to make it easier for her to feel and — with no coordination whatsoever — pounce.

Jazz chuckled. “Demanding little thing. Should I take that as a warning?”

“Warning? Of what?” Prowl put on her most guileless, innocent expression. “Ain’t like  _ I’m  _ all that demandin’, am I?”

“Ain’t,” Jazz said fondly. “Yer both just practicing fer when yer both  _ great _ hunters!”

“Lady Sundance’ll be a great hunter,” Prowl agreed readily. “I like th’idea’a navigatin’ better.” Though right now she was easily a better hunter than Sundance, being both more coordinated and more experienced. Still, it was adorable watching her practice with the string. It also gave her an idea… Finishing off the last of the gliding glitchmouse capsule, Prowl handed the empty shell back to Jazz and turned away to rummage in her pouch. “Need somethin’ t’weight th’end down,” she said, watching for an opportunity to retrieve the bit of wood she needed (along with string) for her Unseen Servant spell hidden in her hikurere. “Did my kelapa charms wind up in th’other bag?”

“Hmmm…?” Jazz went digging through her cargo. “I got some net weights we can use. Would she like a fishing lure too?”

“Dunno that she’ll be able t’see it very well… but if it’s got pieces that’ll trail’n flutter, yes!” Prowl quickly hid the small splinter in her hand and wrapped the end of the string around it, disguising it in a series of knots to create a handhold at one end of the toy. 

“All th’trailin’ and flutterin’,” Jazz confirmed, holding up what must be a fishing lure for Prowl’s perusal. It looked like a fuzzy worm attached to a brightly colored glass sphere, with two long trailing ends made from dyed feathers. “I’ll clip off th’hook and sand it down t’git rid’a th’sharp point.”

“How heavy’re the net weights? Her platin’s pretty thin. I don’t wanna dent her.” Hence her thought to use a piece of the kelapa shell.

Jazz weighed the one she’d dug out, a brass ball the size of a small stone, in her hand. “S’probably too heavy then.”

“Yeah,” Prowl said, testing it. “But th’lure’s heavy enough by itself fer what I had in mind, once th’sharp bits’re taken care of.”

“Sure.” Jazz retrieved a pair of Praxan pliers and set to work on the steelbone hook. Carelessly, she broke the point off what had to have been a hook she had spent several joors carving. Prowl started to protest, but by then it was too late; Jazz was already working on it with a rough piece of sharkticon plating to get rid of the rough edge.

“Here,” she smiled as she handed it over.

“Thanks,” Prowl said as she took it, once again impressed by just how willing Jazz was to accommodate her in every way… except for letting her go. Shaking off the thought, Prowl pulled the other end of the string out of the basket to attach the lure.

“Oh no! It’s gone!”

“It’s not gone,” Prowl soothed the distressed kitten. “It will be right back as soon as I finish making it better.”

“But I need to kill it!”

“And you’ll do a very good job.” Pulling the last knot tight, Prowl draped the lure-on-a-string back into the basket. The feathers tickled at Lady Sundance’s feet and she pounced, wobbling on her little legs and falling over into the folds of the blanket scrap. “There. See?”

“I’m going to kill it again!” Sundance meowed eagerly, biting down on the lure. Prowl pulled it a couple inches away and giggled as the kitten struggled to get the feel of the feathers off her tongue, only to lunge and bite at it once more.

“I think that counts as a success,” Prowl reported. “She likes it.”

Jazz nearly vibrated with happiness. “Was th’glitchmouse pod enough food, or are ya still hungry? Could git somethin’ real quick while she’s occupied,” she offered.

“‘M still kinda hungry,” Prowl said, hoping that getting something would mean diving. Accommodating as Jazz was, she just might do it if she requested something… “I like th’fish ya catch.”

“‘Kay!” Jazz bounced to her feet. “Be back in a bit!” She took a running leap off the side of the catamaran with her usual flashy summersault and dove into the water with barely a ripple to show for it.

Immediately, Prowl drew one of her knives and cut the end off the string, using it and the concealed wood to summon her Unseen Servant. She set it to untying the knots at the top of the sail while she scrambled up onto the deck to work on the ones at the bottom. Lady Sundance was too busy chewing on feathers to protest this time, her own feeble kicks keeping the lure moving enough to distract her.

She finished with her knots before the spell took care of the others, so while it finished Prowl grabbed her bag and started throwing any edibles she could see into it. She wanted, so, so badly to take Lady Sundance too. It felt fundamentally  _ wrong  _ to leave her behind. But for her plan to succeed she needed to be able to  _ hide  _ — and a mewing cyberkitten wasn’t a good thing to have along when you were trying to hide.

Hopefully Jazz would look after her, and not just because it would slow her down. Prowl didn’t want anything bad to happen to her.

The spell components Jazz had taken away were still hidden in the cargo. Prowl didn’t waste time looking for them. Instead, she found the oar Jazz used for paddling and tossed it into the water before grabbing the anchor rope and pulling as hard as she could. It was heavy, and with a thought she called the Unseen Servant over to help her haul it up.

Dumping it on the deck, she looked for what other mischief she and an extra pair of hands could do. She just didn’t know enough about sailing! She didn’t want to cripple the ship permanently; just keep Jazz occupied while she found a place to hide!

She caught the barest outline of the kopapa tied underneath the deck. She looked out towards the mainland to see how far away she had floated. Still close enough to Shadow Jump. She looked down and spotted the ropes tying the boards to the bottom of the deck. She couldn’t reach the knots, but the Servant could and it made short work of them. Both boards dropped into the water below the boat. Sundance yowled for attention and it almost physically hurt to ignore the kitten’s cries.

Seeing nothing else she could do, she said the word and Jumped to the shadow of one of the rocks on the shore.

They had anchored in another small bay, and there was sand, and an easy slope up and away from the water. But Prowl had chosen a spot away from that, up on the rocky cliffs that framed the beach. Jazz would (hopefully) think that she’d taken that easy way inland and run again. She’d contemplated using the Servant to leave a false trail in the sand, but hands didn’t leave good footprints, and her spell didn’t have the range. It would have to be enough like this.

From her vantage point Prowl could see the shadow in the water as Jazz surfaced. She ducked down, afraid Jazz might look up and see her. The sun made the glowing paint on her plating less obvious, but it would be brighter in the shadows. She needed to stay behind the rocks and get moving.

Staying to watch Jazz served no purpose. She’d done all she could to buy herself time to find a good place to hide and wait — either for Jazz to find her, or Arcee. Both would be nearby, and both would be looking. Prowl’s plan was to hide from and evade the former, this time without trying to outrun her, until the latter arrived.

She scrambled over tidepools and rocks, looking for a place. She needed to stay above the water. Fortunately (thanks to Jazz) she knew how to find the high tide line. She just needed to find a cave or a… A crack! Prowl saw the dark shadow in the rock, just above the tide line.

Prowl didn’t have a hexbug to cast a light spell with, so she had to rely on senses other than sight to tell her about it. There was a brackish pool of water that had come in while the tide was higher than usual. Weeds and lumps of all sorts lined the edge of the pool. Being unable to see very well, and knowing what sort of nasty surprises could be lurking, she avoided stepping into the water. She felt along the walls and found a shelf like shape in the rock. It was rough and slanted, but it’d do.

Then came the hard part.

Once Prowl was up on her shelf, there was really nothing for her to do but wait and hope to be found/not found. The soft blue illumination from her paint and optics wasn’t enough to safely explore the crack, or do anything else by even if she’d had something to do. Other than the sound of the surf, she couldn’t hear anything outside. There would be no warning of anyone approaching until it was too late to escape — though if it was Jazz, it would be too late anyway.

Dwelling on that wouldn’t help her though. Having done everything she could until next cycle, when she could either teleport again to move without leaving a trail or signal with her fireworks, now she just needed to keep her mind busy until she was tired enough to will herself to recharge.

It was frustrating how everything she tried to think of, the market at Hightower, taking energon with Arcee, even studying the stars from her observatory, turned to thoughts of Polyhexian tales told in pictures, of kittens playing with fishing lures, and of Jazz’s beautiful spark.

Recharge. She needed to stop thinking and just sleep. Feeling out her perch revealed it to be just a little too small for her to lay out, so she curled up as best she could. There was a… a  _ lump _ right in her hip and she wiggled to try and lay around it. Her engine whined; her doorwings hung uncomfortably over the edge of the ledge. She flipped over and found that she couldn’t even  _ fit _ her doorwings against the cave wall. There was just no good position to be had.

She shivered; she pried at the knots on the sarong, thinking to pull the two cloths over her, but she couldn’t get the knots to cooperate. Instead she pulled the hikurere as far down her shoulders as she could.

She could be back on the nice boat with Jazz and her kitten right now!

No! She had to get back to Praxus, and to Arcee. She  _ had _ to escape!

Determinedly she shut off her optics and spent the whole night shivering on the cold rock.

Somehow she must have managed to get some actual sleep, because suddenly the air wasn’t quite so cold or dark. The sounds of seabirds rang out over the rocks, announcing the morning and waking both Prowl and her appetite. She dug out one of the glider capsules, but hesitated to crack it. It would keep; she should try to catch something else first, and save it in case she couldn’t.

Coming out of the crevice felt terribly risky, but she couldn’t spend the whole cycle there, much less try to sleep there again! Peering carefully around the rocks, Prowl slowly made her way down toward the shore, looking for things she recognized to eat.

She spotted the boat, apparently all set to rights, floating peacefully on the water. Jazz didn’t appear to be with it, making it a good bet she was somewhere on the mainland searching for her, and the sight of the basket made Prowl’s spark twist so she turned away. She told herself to focus on her hunger. The quicker she ate, the quicker she could get back into hiding, and the safer she’d be.

It was a lucky thing she still had her knives, because she wouldn’t have been able to deal with the kina without them. As it was, the only problem with them was they weren’t very filling. Nor were they easy to eat quickly, even with a knife. Jazz had made quick work of the creatures in the tide pools, but she had a lot more practice at it than Prowl.

Finally, too nervous to stay out much longer and no longer quite as famished, Prowl twisted several midye off the rocks to open when she found a new hiding place and set off, this time being more discriminating about the selection. Staying near the boat was still her best bet, since Jazz would assume she’d be moving away from it while Arcee would be looking for it, but this time she wanted a hollow where she could actually recharge without worrying about falling off the rocks!

It would be nice if she could find something that let her peek out and have a good view of the coast as well, but it was probably too much to ask for both.

This time all she could find was a tiny cave. It was further up the rocks — she had to Shadow Jump to it — so there was no brackish water sitting in it, but it was also too small for any sort of ledge or shelf. She’d have to sleep on the hard rock. She started to flick pebbles out of her new shelter so that the rock would at least be more comfortable, but then froze. Could Jazz see that?

She resigned herself to another cold, uncomfortable night. At least she had a good view of the bay. How long should she wait before signalling Arcee? Could she even afford to do it before Jazz and the boat had left? Either way, it was a question for later. Having used up the magic in her bonded ring for the cycle teleporting up here, she couldn’t cast the fireworks until after she’d rested again, and in the meantime she was still hungry.

While she didn’t feel safe throwing the pebbles or midye shells out of the little cave, she did collect them all to one side so she wasn’t sitting on top of them. She wished she’d grabbed about twenty more midye by the time she’d finished with the six she had taken, but they wouldn’t have fit in her bag. The food she’d grabbed off the boat was awfully tempting, but she managed to resist until the sun started to set. Then, before the light was gone, Prowl gave in and cracked open the glider capsule and knocked it back in one long gulp.

There was no getting truly comfortable to recharge here either; in fact, it wound up being easier to stay sitting and lean against the cave wall rather than trying to lay down. Prowl pushed the pile of debris out of the way as she wedged herself in place and arranged the sarongs over her legs. They didn’t do much to warm her with the rock all around her sapping her heat, but they were at least a minimal amount of protection against the occasional gust of wind.

She could see a sliver of the night sky this time, but the tiny glimpse didn’t include the pink stars. Like the night before, in the end the only thing that allowed her to recharge at all was exhaustion.

Morning dawned stiff and cold and miserable. Prowl ate another preserved ration — some kind of jellied substance wrapped in weeds that was actually quite tasty — before she could force herself to move. Her joints ached as she stood, protesting her lodgings in an unmistakable manner, but there wasn’t anything she could do for them except pray for a better cave (did such a thing even exist?) for tonight, or to be rescued before then.

Wandering the rocks nearby didn’t reveal anything she hadn’t seen last cycle, nor could she find an easy way back down that wouldn’t require teleporting again. She held off on that, worried by the continued presence of Jazz’s boat in the bay. If she was closing in on her, a single Shadow Jump wouldn’t take her far enough away.

Prowl crawled back into the tiny cave to keep an optic on the rocky approach. She pulled the paper-wrapped sulfur packet out from under her hikurere and held it in nervous hands.

Waiting.

Movement out on the rocks caught her attention and she quickly stowed away her final spell component.

White against the reddish-brown rocks, Jazz was easy to spot. She bobbed slowly between the pools left behind by the tide, searching. Prowl pressed herself back into the cave, out of sight, when Jazz looked up, inspecting the cliff face. How? How was she doing it?! Prowl choked back a whine of frustration. She was going to find her; it was only a matter of time!

She felt suddenly claustrophobic. Sending up fireworks now wouldn’t bring Arcee in time, even if she was right there in the forest, and she couldn’t stand the thought of just sitting there until Jazz appeared at the entrance, blocking her only escape! Breaking cover, Prowl darted out of the cave, trying to scramble around behind the rocks where Jazz wouldn’t be able to see her while she looked for a place to jump to.

There were plenty of shadows large enough to hold her. The problem was that Jazz had a clear line of sight to most of them. Not there… not there… not there… not—  _ there! _ With the words, Prowl jumped to the shadow. She was inside a deep, vertical crevice. It was deep enough to be filled with water, and she had enough sense of mind to avoid the various stinging things she could see as she crouched down, once again hoping Jazz wouldn’t see her.

Unlike the forest, they were close enough that she could hear Jazz’s soft tread as she circled her hiding spot. A scrape of her feet on the rock and Prowl peeked out to see Jazz climbing up to her cave.

She took the chance to move while Jazz was looking away.

The waves crashing on the rocks nearly caused her to lose her grip as she scrambled away. She struggled to find a way to move slowly enough not to fall and still move fast enough to put more distance between her and Jazz, all the while keeping as low as possible. It wasn’t easy to do any of those things, let alone all of them, especially while struggling against the trailing ends of the sarong that kept twisting around her legs.

Bad luck and a bad hand hold had her skidding down several feet when a particularly large wave sent sea spray flying up at her. Prowl bit her lip hard to keep from yelling as the rough rocks scored the side of her leg and she collapsed, shivering with cold, fear, and pain, at the base of the boulder she’d been attempting to climb over. She couldn’t see beyond it when she looked up so she pressed her back against it, hoping against hope it would block her from Jazz’s sight as well.

_ Please let her not have heard that, please let her not have heard that… _

“Prowl?” Jazz peeked over the boulder to look right down at her. “Come on, we gotta git ya outta that hole.” She climbed down much more gracefully to join Prowl and started to pick her up.

“No!” Prowl tried to twist away, but there wasn’t anywhere for her to go, and her leg burned in the rusty water, and—  _ “No!” _

Her struggles didn’t seem to deter Jazz at all. She still effortlessly picked Prowl up and swung her over her shoulder so that she could be carried out of the chasm she’d fallen into. She put Prowl down just out of the reach of the waves. There was nothing truly dry, but they weren’t getting soaked with every surge. “Shhh… it’s okay. I ain’t mad. Sundance is mad, but I ain’t.”

“It ain’t  _ about  _ that!” Prowl yelled, her composure completely broken. She slammed her hand down on the rock in frustration, barely feeling the new cuts and scrapes it caused. “It’s— it’s—!” But it was so many things she couldn’t get the words out. All she could do was cry.

Jazz seemed taken aback by the sobs, but the wiggling bundle in her pouch suddenly started wiggling  _ insistently. _ “Let me out!” the kitten meowed. Whether Jazz had understood that or was just familiar enough with cats to do what Sundance wanted regardless, soon the bundle of soft plating was presented to Prowl, who took the kitten automatically and cuddled her against her chest. “It’ll be okay. I love you,” she purred.

“Prowl…beautiful…?” Jazz tried.

Prowl couldn’t answer her. She just kept crying, rocking gently in place with Sundance in her arms. “I’m sorry,” was all she could manage to get out, over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” Apologizing to the kitten for leaving her behind, apologizing to Arcee for not being able to escape, to Jazz for wanting to, to the king for  _ not  _ wanting to.

What was she supposed to do now?

Too hurt, hungry, tired, and all around used up to cope, Prowl curled up where she was, shaking with the strength of her conflicting emotions.

_ “Coo-rru,” _ Jazz cooed comfortingly. She sat next to Prowl and tried to cuddle, to comfort, but Prowl jerked away. Jazz made another wordless sound, this time of confusion. She took a deep breath, and continued to coo, offering the comfort of her voice, even if Prowl was shying away from her touch.

Having Jazz respect that boundary made Prowl feel both better and worse. She wanted the comfort of that touch, but she  _ needed  _ the distance…

…even as she wished it wasn’t necessary.

Eventually her sobs subsided; miserable as she was, she didn’t have the strength to maintain that level of emotion for long. The whole thing left her feeling ironically wrung out as she lay soaking wet on the rocks, still whimpering softly as she stroked Lady Sundance’s head and ears. “I’m sorry.”

“We need ta git outta th’tidal zone,” Jazz said softly. She sounded almost as hurt and confused as Prowl felt. “Gotta bandage those scrapes.”

She was right. Prowl knew she was right. Gingerly she forced herself up, first to sit, then to stand. Her arms stayed wrapped around Sundance, not reaching for Jazz for balance, though she didn’t try to climb over the rocks on her own. She knew she wouldn’t be able to get back to the catamaran without help. And though it obviously confused her that it was necessary, Jazz helped Prowl over the tricky places then politely withdrew her hands.

Soon they were standing on the sand Prowl had avoided before. The kopapa waited for them, thrust vertically into the sand above the high tide line. Jazz ran to get it and came back to Prowl. She started to offer her hand, then let it drop. “Come on. Bandages’n stuff’re back on th’kattumaram.”

“Hmm.” Settling Sundance carefully in her bag so as not to risk dropping her, Prowl crawled out onto the kopapa and waited for Jazz to take them back to the boat.

.

.

.

Prowl let Jazz bandage her and settle her into the boat’s sleeping hollow. She even held still while Jazz tied her hands together and took the knives. Emotional turbulence pulled her into a fitful sleep after that, but when Jazz tried to climb under the blankets with her, Prowl cried and told her to go away.

She wasn’t surprised when Jazz did so, but it didn’t help her feel better.

Now, watching Jazz sleep, cold and wet, on the deck next to the mast, Prowl added guilt to the list of mixed emotions she was feeling.

She was perfectly warm under the blankets. In a way, that warmth, the fact that she was dry, made it harder. It would be easier to reject everything Jazz offered if it was going to come with uncomfortable, cold, wet nights. Unwilling to think further about that, or about guilt, she curled herself around Sundance’s basket and forced herself back into recharge.

The sun was very high in the sky when she woke up again. Jazz was playing the penny whistle she’d had been playing the first time Prowl had woken on the catamaran. She stopped immediately and scrambled across the deck to Prowl.

“Don’t touch me,” she bit out the barest moment before Jazz’s fingers made contact with her plating. Jazz drew back with a whine of confusion.

“I fed Sundance fer ya,” she said. “You hungry?”

She was. She was ravenous, but she didn’t think she could stand another unexpectedly delicious Polyhexian food item right now. She wanted liquid, mined energon. She wanted  _ home _ — no matter how bitter a taste it left in her mouth to think of Praxus as  _ home. _

“No,” she said and turned over as best as she could, presenting her back to Jazz to stare at the side of the catamaran’s hull. The ability she’d had to think of this as a temporary adventure to enjoy while she waited to escape was gone; she’d gotten too close, and she couldn’t let it happen again. Not if she was to return without regrets.

Deep in her spark, she wondered if it was already too late…

It took several very long moments, but she eventually heard Jazz moving away. Her steps whispered nearly silently across the deck, but the femme lacked her usual bounce. Guilt reared its head again, and Prowl forced it down, telling herself it was better this way.

When they anchored again for Jazz to rest, Prowl didn’t even bother looking at the shore. What was the point? Even if she used her single spell to teleport to it, she would still be tied up. Jazz and the sea had defeated every other attempt she’d made. It was clear to her now the only way out of this was to wait for the end of the lunar cycle when Jazz  _ had  _ to release her.

She wished now that she’d tried harder to impress upon her the impossibility of being mates. Maybe if she had, they would both have been spared this agony.

The only bright spot in an otherwise bleak horizon was Sundance. The little kitten was growing stronger every cycle. She still mostly just ate and napped and played with the feather fishing lure, but sometimes when she was cuddled against Prowl’s plating, she would whisper and try and plan  _ their _ escape. Some of her ideas were silly. Others were surprisingly good for a still-blind cat.

All of them were pointless.

“Y’said… y’said it weren’t about me bein’ mad, but…” Jazz’s unexpected voice pulled Prowl out of her melancholy thoughts. “If ya weren’t afraid this time, then… what’d I do wrong?”

She sounded as confused as Prowl felt, and it hurt to hear the pain in her voice. “Didn’t do anything wrong,” Prowl said softly, unable to leave the plaintive question unanswered. She knew Jazz had expected Prowl to be  _ glad  _ to be captured again; Prowl had been so clever, had evaded her for two whole sunrises! And Jazz had found her. She was a good mate!

Jazz  _ would  _ be a good mate, Prowl finally let herself admit. She even wanted Jazz to be  _ her _ mate. But… “Didn’t do anything wrong, ‘cept pickin’ someone who couldn’t be yer mate.” It just couldn’t be. Prowl was Praxan, a  _ princess, _ and she had a duty to her country and to her King that she couldn’t just set aside.

“Sure y’can! Yer everythin’ I ever dreamed of. We fit together so well!” Prowl curled tighter against the passion — and the truth — in those words. “What haven’t I done?” Jazz begged. “Tell me what I gotta do t’prove t’ya I’d be a good mate’n I’ll do it! I’d do anythin’ fer ya, beautiful. Just say th’word!”

Even from up on the deck, her field was strong enough Prowl could feel her spark breaking.

Maybe she could feel Prowl’s breaking too.

“It ain’t that simple,” Prowl finally got out past the static choking her vocalizer. “Not fer me. I ain’t Polyhexian, Jazz. My life, my choices, they… they ain’t mine alone t’make. I got a duty t’my people.” She pulled in a tremulous breath. All her life she’d been afraid everyone around her would reject her for being overly curious and adventurous. Now she prayed that the one femme who’d accepted her in spite of that,  _ because  _ of that, would understand the  _ responsibility  _ that was just as much a part of who she was _. _ “I can’t leave that part’a me behind.”

Jazz didn’t say anything. Prowl couldn’t bring herself to ask her what she was thinking. Still feeling twisted up and miserable, Prowl shuttered her optics and listened to the sounds of the sea to drown out her thoughts.

Sunrise on the third cycle, Prowl woke to a small shake on her shoulder.

“Don’…” Prowl said automatically as she woke.

“Ain’t,” Jazz said sadly, immediately backing off. “Just wanted y’awake. Com’ere?” Prowl didn’t. She just laid on the sleeping pad and tried to go back to sleep. “Please Prowl? I’ll untie ya, I just need—” Jazz broke off with a distressed whine.

It didn’t matter if she was untied or not, but her spark ached at causing Jazz even more distress so she struggled out of the ship’s hull and onto the deck. Jazz tried to help, but was reduced to silent hovering by Prowl’s protest.

True to her word, Jazz immediately untied her and Prowl looked up to see where they were for the first time.

They were very close to shore, closer than Prowl thought Jazz would ever get again. Land was etched in enticing greys against the barest light of the light of not-yet-dawn. And they were drifting closer, carried by the tide.

Jazz’s hands on her leg nearly made her snap again that she didn’t want to be touched, but Prowl held her tongue when she saw what the islander was doing: tying the knives back on. Two full, heavy waist-pouches were next, tied around her waist. Then she gave Prowl her satchel. “‘S’got yer spell things in it, right where they belong.”

She didn’t stick around to see Prowl’s look of astonishment; instead, she retrieved the kopapa rider blanket and folded it twice, corner to corner, then again into a large triangle, and draped it over Prowl’s shoulders, adjusting the hikurere and the magnets holding it so that they held the blanket-turned-cape in place as well. She stepped back and examined her work, quirking her lips into a small smile. “There. Yer ready.”

Ready for what, Prowl couldn’t imagine, but before she could ask, Jazz had turned away to row the boat those last few strokes onto the sand. The catamaran beached itself with a lurch.

“What—” Prowl braced herself to keep from falling over as they came to a stop. The  _ first _ full stop the boat had done; even when anchored it drifted and bobbed. It was a decidedly strange sensation to stand on the deck and not be moving. “Jazz?”

“I packed food fer ya. Should git ya most’a th’way back t’Hightower. Y’know enough about food-finding t’git ya th’rest’a th’way.” Jazz looked up, up the shore towards the tangled crystal forest beyond the dunes, then over to the side. “Yer rescuers’re trying t’decide th’perfect time t’ambush me, just outta sight. They’ll take ya home.” She turned away; Prowl saw the tremble in her frame that looked an awful lot like Jazz was holding back her own sobs. “Ya tell Arcee she didn’t win ya back, alright. This don’t mean she’s  _ a better mate’n _ me.”

“This… yer…” Prowl sat, unmoving, feeling like her processor was lagging. There was only one explanation she could think of for what was happening, and it didn’t make any sense. “Yer lettin’ me go?”

“Yeah, beautiful, that’s what I’m doin’.” Jazz fussed with the furled sail, still trembling. “Go back t’yer clan.”

Prowl stood slowly, shakily, still not quite believing what she was hearing. “Full moon’s still a lotta sunrises away,” she said haltingly, not wanting Jazz to change her mind but needing to be sure.

“I know.” Jazz stopped her pretense of concentrating on the boat, but she didn’t turn back to Prowl. She just leaned against the mast, trying to conceal how much she needed it to stay standing. “Take Sundance’n go.”

_ Jazz…  _ Prowl’s hand started to reach out to her almost of its own accord. She stopped before her fingers could brush her shoulder, able to see how much she was shaking too. Of all the things Jazz had done, all the ways she’d tried to prove herself,  _ this  _ was the hardest to walk away from.

But she had to. She’d never be able to forgive herself if she stayed with Jazz.

She’d just have to live with the regret that she hadn’t.

When she knelt beside Sundance’s basket, she saw that Jazz had tucked her fuel, feeding towel, and feather toy in with her. The kitten was sniffing at the corner of the towel, confused why it smelled like fuel but wasn’t wet.

“Are you going to feed me?” she asked, pawing at it gently.

Prowl’s response was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. It probably sounded even weirder to Jazz, being, to her, also part meow. “I will,” she promised Sundance. “When we’re farther away.”

Securing the lid on the basket, Prowl lifted it and stood again, still feeling off-balance in the completely still boat. “I… thank you,” she said quietly, stepping down into the sand. “Thank you.”

“Go!” Jazz half-yelled, half-sobbed.

Prowl stumbled backward, nearly tripping on the uneven ground. She hadn’t gotten more than a few steps away when—

_ “Prowl!” _

All of a sudden they weren’t alone on the beach. Arcee and her guards burst out from under cover, imposing themselves between Prowl and the catamaran, which now had a second occupant — a femme who looked a lot like Jazz, with darker coloring and a yellow optic band. Together Jazz and she — was that Ricochet? Her twin? — were pushing the boat off the beach and back onto the water.

Back where it belongs, Prowl couldn’t help but think. Free…

Resolutely she turned her back on the two islanders and the sea to face her own… intended. It took all of Prowl’s court training to keep the strain out of her voice. “Arcee,” she said evenly. “Drift, Hot Rod,” she looked at the two guards, “thank you for coming all this way.” Praxan felt strange in her mouth after so long speaking Polyhexian.

“Dog!” Sundance hissed. Prowl heard her pawing blindly at the side of the basket. “Dog! I’ll protect you Prowl! Get away from the dog!”

For their part, Drift’s dogs were sitting, perfectly behaved at their owner’s feet.

“Shh,” Prowl told the kitten, patting the basket where she was trying — entirely uselessly — to break through. “They aren’t going to attack me.” Ignoring the strange looks talking in cat to a woven basket garnered, she looked to Drift and asked, “Please keep the dogs away from the basket. They upset Lady Sundance of Greenfields.”

“Lady Sundance of Greenfields?” Arcee looked concerned, and tried to help Prowl by taking her arm to steady her. Prowl jerked away, the worry and uncertainty on her intended’s face almost insulting after the way Jazz had treated her with so much confidence. “What is a Lady Sundance?”

“She’s a cat,” Prowl said imperiously. She was  _ hurting, _ not  _ helpless. _ “MY cat. And you will treat her with respect.”

“Of course,” Arcee agreed quickly, still looking at her like she wasn’t sure what to make of her. Her optics kept flickering over Prowl, lingering on all of Jazz’s gifts before landing on the weeds still wrapped around her leg. “What are those?”

“Bandages,” Prowl admitted, then because she didn’t want anyone thinking  _ Jazz _ had hurt her, she continued, “I scraped myself up on the rocks during my last escape attempt.”

“Three cycles ago? We saw the boat standing empty on the shore, but we had gone too far up the coast to return in time.” Arcee sounded genuinely apologetic on that score. “We have additional medical supplies if—”

“Ricochet!” Another mech came running up to the beach, inadvertently interrupting Arcee as he skidded to a halt on the sand. “I’m sorry Princess, she just took off,” he said to her before he seemed to notice Prowl. Then, with a doubletake that was almost comical, he recognized her. “Princess?”

“Smokescreen?” Prowl blurted out just as Arcee answered: “She left with Jazz,” with an undertone of  _ good riddance. _

“Yeah. Hi?” Smokescreen stumbled. “You’re okay? Right? You look…” he ran his optics over the same adornments Arcee had been confused by. “Good,” was his conclusion.

Which cheered Prowl immediately. “Thank you.”

Smokescreen smiled, but dropped back to speak with Hot Rod about what had happened with Jazz and Ricochet as Arcee continued. “As I was saying, we have medical supplies to redress that,” she offered. “I’m afraid we’re rather far away from Hightower. It will be a long drive back.”

“They’re fine,” Prowl did her best not to snap; she’d had doubts about how effective the Polyhexian bandages were when she was unfamiliar with them. The messy weeds currently wrapped around her leg hardly looked like they would be of any use. But they were only scratches; hardly anything like a blown out  _ tire, _ after all. “I know how far away we are.” She’d never driven that distance, but there wasn’t any other alternative.

“We’ll be meeting up with some of the Praxan guard on our way back,” Arcee said, still sounding a bit unsure what to say. Did Prowl really seem so different? Perhaps she did; a lot had happened in the relatively short time since they had last seen each other, and she certainly felt different. “They’ll be carrying proper rations. Until then, we have only what the dogs have been able to bring down for us.”

“That’s fine,” Prowl finally got the strength to move. She took a step away from the water, but couldn’t help looking back. She saw the catamaran, sail now unfurled, with the two femmes embracing each other on the deck. The sight hurt, so Prowl turned away, slowly walking up the beach. “Jazz packed me some fuel, and I should be able to find us some more.” She wouldn’t be a burden to them on this journey. “We should…” it almost physically hurt to say it, “go.”

“Yes. Your ordeal has gone on long enough.” Arcee hesitated again, looking at all the things Prowl was wearing. “One of the others will carry your things. You won’t be able to drive like that.”

No, she wouldn’t. She was walking on entirely dry sand, sand well above the tide. She checked Sundance — asleep — before setting the basket to the side, then worked the blanket out from under the hikurere and spread it out. She could wrap the knives and the various ornaments in that. After considering what she was wearing she decided the sarong needed to be next. She took off the satchel and belt pouches and set them aside. “I may need help with the knots on the sarong, but I can carry my own things.”

“If you’re sure…” Arcee followed her up the sand, looking at the knots on the sarong. “How do these even come undone?”

“Ah, if your highnesses will permit me?” Smokescreen said, drawing both princesses’ attention. “I can undo the knots.”

“Thank you, Smokescreen.” Prowl stepped away from Arcee to give the merchant access. “There must be a trick to these because I can untie most of the other knots.”

“They can be a bit complicated,” he agreed as he carefully began working. “The most important thing is to start here,” he pulled at one part of the knot, “rather than here,” the section Prowl had gone for when she’d tried to untie the sarongs in the cave. As soon as he had them loosened for her he stepped back, allowing her to finish on her own. He was probably just uncomfortable being in such close physical proximity to her, and so backed away as quickly as he could, but Prowl was glad to finish removing and folding the fabric herself.

“You mentioned that the bar— that Jazz,” Arcee said, changing her wording at the sudden rigidness in Prowl’s doorwings, “gave you provisions?”

Prowl hadn’t actually looked at what Jazz had given her yet. She took the two sarong and spread them out over the blanket before kneeling next to her three bags to very briefly search through what fuel Jazz had left her. There were some familiar things, but other things she didn’t recognize. “She did,” she answered Arcee. It probably wasn’t enough to get all the way back to Hightower, but Jazz had said as much. She packed that back up and then continued piling the ornaments, the hikurere, the knives, the bracelets, the necklaces… she hesitated when she got to the choker. She ran her fingers over the star shell, then determinedly took the necklace off.

She felt… naked without all the ornamentation. At least she still had the paint.

Quickly, before she could change her mind, she bundled it all into the blanket and transformed. She opened her door. “Please put Lady Sundance in first.”

With every bit of care and reverence Prowl could have asked for, Arcee lifted the basket and settled it securely in her alt mode. She put the blanket bundle on one side and the bags on the other, ensuring it wouldn’t slide around. But instead of stepping back once everything was in place, Arcee reached into her bag and pulled out a book… a very familiar book.

Her spellbook! She hadn’t even  _ thought _ about it. Prowl relaxed on her tires. “Thank you, Arcee. Thank you for keeping it safe.”

“You’re welcome. I knew you would be missing it.” That cloying concern still overlaid Arcee’s words, but Prowl tried to focus on the care and insight thinking to bring her spellbook showed on the part of her intended… and wondered at the slight traces of guilt in the other princess’s field. Why? Why should Arcee feel guilty? Because she hadn’t kept  _ her  _ safe too?

Prowl wanted to tell her it wasn’t her fault, that she didn’t blame her for what had happened. But her own guilt was too close to the surface, so she said nothing.

Prowl idled silently while the others gathered up what they had dropped to prepare their unneeded ambush. Smokescreen complained the whole time, but revved his engine cheerfully at Prowl when they were finally ready. “Princesses first,” he said after Drift, who was leading the way, had started. His tone was light enough that Prowl just chuckled and drove.

It was harder to drive through the sand, and with all her things, than she’d thought it would be. Still, she didn’t appreciate Arcee’s  _ hovering. _ She had a feeling they were going slower to “accommodate” her than they would have without her as well, but Smokescreen kept up a constant, vocal stream of complaints that made her feel better. She certainly wasn’t going to insist they go faster than Smokescreen could go.

Arcee dropped back to snap at him to cease his complaints, giving Prowl some needed space for a short time. But then “Do you need us to slow down, Prowl?” she said when she returned to Prowl’s side.

“No,” Prowl bit out.

Arcee swerved indecisively. “I’m—”

“When are we going to  _ stop!” _ Smokescreen called. “I have sand sticking to my axle. And in  _ other _ places it is not fun to have sand.”

“What the  _ frag _ is wrong with you?” Arcee called as she dropped back again. “I’m starting to wonder if all those complaints really were Ricochet…”

To Prowl’s shame, it took two more repetitions for her to notice that Smokescreen was doing it on purpose. Once she realized, she was glad his antics were drawing Arcee’s attention, but she really didn’t need him pretending he needed to stop for her benefit! She revved her engine in aggravation, ready to yell at  _ all  _ of them for coddling her, but a soft  _ mew!  _ from the now-awake Sundance saved them from her temper.

“Prowl? Where are you? I’m hungry. Feed me!”

Prowl stopped abruptly and popped her doors, signalling in no uncertain terms that she wanted her cargo removed so she could transform.

Arcee skidded to a stop, started to dump her cargo, but Smokescreen said something that redirected the Iaconi princess’s attention and it was Drift (as the only one without his own cargo) who silently unloaded Prowl’s things and held Sundance’s basket until she transformed. She cradled the basket and ignored the others while she took care of her spirit guide.

Sundance’s fuel was packed into little ovoid containers Prowl recognized as the emptied developement shells of island glitchmice. The two fang-holes were filled with plugs of that spongy steel wool then dipped in wax to seal it. Prowl had to use the twist-pry knife to break the seal and pull the plugs out. She found that if she tipped the ovoid so that fuel only poured out of one of the fang holes, she could pour the muddy blue nijan fuel onto the cloth in an even, steady stream. Clever…

Sundance sucked on the cloth, drinking the fuel until the ovoid container was empty and she complained of her fuel tank hurting. She fell back asleep almost immediately. Prowl stroked the soft silver-speckled black plating gently, smiling. She was glad Sundance had found her. She wasn't sure she could do this without her…

“Prowl?” It was Arcee again, this time undeterred by any distractions from Smokescreen. She looked like she wanted to talk, but didn’t know where to start. “She’s adorable,” she finally opened with, gesturing to the sleeping kitten. “When did you get her?”

Talking about the cat was a safe enough topic… probably. “Six cycles ago. Jazz had… all sorts of gifts, some of which I wasn’t particularly interested in. Things she’d bought from Praxus. My disinterest confused her, but she decided that meant she needed to trade them for things I liked better. We met up with another warrior, one carrying trade goods he was looking to sell. He had a basket of kittens, and when I looked inside, I just knew.” How to describe what had happened when her own spirit guide had first spoken to her? Jazz and Stepper had seen and instantly understood what was happening even though their own spirit guides manifested quite differently. Would Arcee understand?  _ Could _ she? “She was mine,” Prowl settled on. Her spark felt too heavy and hurt to try explaining anyway. “I was hers. She’s going to be my familiar.”

“Ahh. That’s wonderful,” Arcee said, obviously understanding what a familiar was enough to be happy for her. Hot Rod might not have one, would never have one due to the form his magic took and how he directed it through his swordplay, but he wasn’t the only mage in Iacon. “She’s so young. So delicate.”

Sundance instantly went from sound asleep to yowling in protest.  _ “Not _ delicate! I am a  _ hunter!” _ She swatted blindly in Arcee’s direction. “I’ll  _ show _ you delicate!”

“Shhhh…” Prowl purred back to soothe the kitten’s temper, focusing on that rather than  _ snapping at Arcee herself! _

“Are the dogs too close? Am… am I too close?” Arcee asked, shuffling back slightly to give the kitten (and Prowl) some space. “I did not mean to distress her.”

Now feeling not quite as crowded, Prowl took a deep, calming breath. She could do this. “She will grow up to be a skilled hunter of vermin and as such objects to being called  _ delicate.” _ Another breath. She could  _ do this. _ “And quite frankly, so do I,” she managed to say evenly. “Neither of us is either delicate or helpless.”

Arcee looked rather taken aback by that. She didn’t say anything right away, which at least meant she wasn’t dismissing Prowl’s assertion out of hand, but that mix of concern and guilt in her field weren’t anything Prowl wanted to deal with. She pulled her own field in close, away from where Arcee’s rubbed annoyingly at the edges.

“My apologies,” Arcee said, her gaze falling when Prowl pulled away. “I won’t say it again.”

“Thank you,” she answered diplomatically, though it grated on her nerve-wires to have to ask for and be grateful for such a thing. Sundance gave one last hiss, pouncing on the feathers of the fishing lure turned cat toy, then fell promptly asleep on top of it. She was still too young for much activity at a stretch. “We should probably continue.”

“Are you sure—” Arcee began, then stopped herself and started again. “Yes, of course. Everyone has had a chance to rest and we should move on while we still have the sun.” She stood and held out her hands to take Sundance’s basket.

Reloading everyone went quickly and blessedly quietly, though they hadn’t been on the road long when Smokescreen resumed his banter and whining. This time Prowl wasn’t offended by it, able to hear that he really wasn’t angling for them to stop, but rather keeping Arcee from hovering quite so close on her bumper. Whatever he was doing along on the rescue party, Prowl found herself glad he was here to provide that buffer.

She was dead tired when they stopped for the night. Her plating  _ itched _ without the ornaments, so she pulled them all back on again before she even looked up at the others. They were busy setting up. Prowl watched them establish their camp with a brisk, practiced efficiency and felt… strangely out of place. They all had jobs to do.

Except Smokescreen, who also sat out at the edge of the activity.

Prowl looked at the uncomfortable looking sleeping pads everyone had brought. Smokescreen rolled out his with a sigh of disappointment. Prowl didn’t wait for Arcee or one of the guards to get it in their heads that they needed to give up their beds. She went to the sand and started digging out a hole like Jazz had.

Smokescreen noticed what she was doing first. “Would you like some assistance, Princess?” he asked, offering in a way that somehow didn’t imply that she couldn’t manage perfectly well on her own. “I’ll admit upfront that I’ve never dug a sleeping hollow on my own before though. Ricochet always took care of that for us.”

“Ricochet dug a sleeping hollow for you?” Prowl paused, intrigued. She smiled. “You’re the one Jazz’s twin liked?”

“Wha— yes, but,” Smokescreen fumbled his words, surprised by the question, “how do  _ you  _ know that we— er, that we were getting along so well?”

“When they were calling back and forth, Jazz said Ricochet was… quite taken with you. She said she was planning on, you know,  _ taking _ you once she had access to the katt— the catamaran.”

“She  _ what?!”  _ Oh, the look on his face! Shock gave way to panic as Smokescreen processed the full meaning of what she’d said, but then panic started to settle into thoughtful contemplation instead of dread. “Wonder if she’ll let me talk to her about it first. I mean, I like her. I really… really like her,” he said, his hand absently coming up to rest over his chest seam. “But I have my business. That’s not something I can just sail away from.” His optics took on a knowing, sympathetic glow, looking down at Prowl in the sand wearing all her Polyhexian ornaments. “Suppose I don’t really need to tell you that though. Do I?”

“No. You don’t.” Prowl turned back down to digging. Smokescreen shuffled his feet. “I could use the help,” Prowl said before he could slink away believing she was mad at him. “After, I’ll help you dig yours.”

“Thank you,” he said, kneeling down beside her to start scooping out sand. “Maybe between us and our blunt fingers we’ll manage as well as a Polyhexian would alone.”

It did go faster with two. Not as fast as Jazz dug, but quicker than either of them were able to do by themselves. Arcee came over at one point, and Prowl worried she would try to strike up another conversation, or worse, tell her she should stop digging, but she didn’t. After watching for a few moments she left without a word. Prowl’s insistence that she wasn’t delicate or helpless must have made an impact. They finished Prowl’s hollow in peace, relaxed further while digging Smokescreen’s, and were absolutely covered in sand when they were done.

“Why are you here, with the rescue group?” Prowl asked after they had both rinsed the sand off in the surf.

“Me? I’m here to translate — or I was, when Ricochet was with us.” He looked out over the water, searching in vain for a boat that wasn’t there. “She only knew maybe ten words of Praxan, and no one else spoke any Polyhexian. The Princess and her guards don’t even know much of the trade argot. Some of the Praxan guards knew more, but it’s… pretty limited.”

It was that, as Prowl had discovered herself. She almost wanted to say something to him in Polyhexian just to hear the sound of it again, but she didn’t feel up to talking right now. Physically or emotionally, in any language, it was just too much. Still, Prowl was glad of Smokescreen’s presence and his understanding.

They made their way back to the others to pass out fuel. Prowl fed Sundance, then started taking a closer look at what Jazz had left her. One of the overfull belt pouches was mostly various preserved energon treats, but not completely.

She stared at the closed shell she knew was full of wake-light fish ink and trembled.

“What’s wrong?” Arcee asked her, effectively drawing everyone’s attention to the shell in her hand. “What is that?”

“It’s,” Prowl didn’t even know the Praxan word. The trade argot words Jazz had originally called it sounded… horribly clumsy now. “It’s the glowing paint Polyhexians use to mark their mates and potential mates,” she settled on. “It’s one of the gifts Jazz—” Something occurred to her and she set the shell aside to start pulling things out of the other pack… There was more fuel, but she also pulled out the beads, the games, the dice, the jewelry making tools, and the hunting implements… the compass. All the gifts.

Oh  _ Primus! _ Prowl stumbled to her feet and took a few steps to the water, but of course there was no boat there to call to, even if she knew how to use the tetere Jazz had given her. She sat down heavily, already sobbing. Jazz! All the gifts she’d saved for a  _ lifetime _ to give to her future mate, not just the ones Prowl had been wearing or had played with or needed to get back to Hightower.  _ How dare she! _

Jazz had no intention of moving on.

The soft touch on her shoulder that came a few moments later was all wrong. Arcee’s fingers weren’t the right shape, the right color, the right  _ anything  _ other than  _ there  _ offering comfort and support. “I’m here,” she said quietly, almost too quiet for Prowl to even hear over her own cries. “I’m here for you.”

Prowl wasn’t strong enough to refuse. She let herself be drawn into a hug. The sense of  _ wrongness _ continued: Arcee’s frame was much too thin, with Iaconi angles instead of Polyhexian curves.

Three cycles ago she’d been crying that Jazz wouldn’t let her go, now she was crying that Jazz hadn’t kept her… she hated how confused she felt. She wanted to be home. But she didn’t know if that was her tower in the castle or tucked into the catamaran’s hull with Jazz.

Eventually her sobs quieted to soft hiccups.

She felt exhausted, wrung out.

Jazz, she wanted… “Jazz.”

Arcee’s hand paused in its gentle stroking on her back. She’d heard. But, by some miracle, she didn’t say anything; all she did was gesture at one of the others. Prowl didn’t have to ask why when a moment later the kopapa rider blanket was being draped over her shoulders. Arcee smoothed the edges down against her plating, resuming the soothing stroking motions once it was in place. Once again Prowl was struck by the difference between the Polyhexian blanket and the Praxan ones she’d always had before. The waterproof plastic fibers were smooth and cool to the touch, but held in Prowl’s own warmth while at the same time keeping away the night’s chill.

She missed Jazz’s soothing cooing. It was a weird sound, but Prowl had never heard anything so comfortable. She’d gotten used to it. And now it was gone. She… “I miss her,” she whispered.

Above her, Arcee let out a long, deliberate sigh. “I was afraid,” she said. “I didn’t know what was happening to you and I was afraid it was something awful. I thought when we found you, you wouldn’t feel safe until we got you home.” Her arms tightened around Prowl, hugging her close. She felt confused, like she still didn’t understand Prowl’s feelings, but not angry or upset with her for having them. “I’m glad that she was kind enough to be missed.”

“She loves me,” Prowl sobbed. “I—” she couldn’t say it.

“Shh. It’s alright.” Arcee stroked her hand over the back of Prowl’s helm. The memory of Jazz caressing her chevron was so strong it almost physically hurt. “You don’t have to explain. Not tonight.”

Eventually Prowl couldn’t stand it anymore. It felt good to be held, but the memory of Jazz lurked painfully behind every touch; she pulled away, and Arcee let her. She went back to her things to re pack them. She wouldn’t dishonor Jazz’s commitment by leaving anything behind.

Prowl unwrapped one of the weed covered gels. It was oblong, the same muddy blue as the nijan fuel, and had silvery streaks of dissolved metal running through it. This wasn’t one she’d tried before, but she picked at it, trying not to flinch at the memory of Jazz being exasperating and hand feeding her one like it. Her fuel levels were almost empty, so she forced herself to eat the whole thing — and it was very good, as Jazz had thought it would be when she’d bought it from Stepper — and then another, despite her lack of appetite.

Finally, not interested in staying up any later, Prowl brought Lady Sundance in her basket back to her hollow in the sand. Just like Jazz had done, she laid a tarp down first, then pulled it and her blanket firmly over herself to shut out the world.

She could hear bits and pieces of the others talking as they prepared to turn in for the night, their silence broken now that she was “asleep”.

“How many — meet up with us?”

“Three, maybe four cycles…”

“Do you think I should go over—”

“—iving her some space might be…”

“Play with me?” Sundance’s plaintive meow interrupted her eavesdropping. Grateful for the distraction, Prowl slid the basket’s lid off and reached in to make the fishing lure flutter. Her sleeping hole was suddenly filled with the tiny hisses, growls, chatters and purrs of the kitten, drowning out any further conversation from the outside.

Prowl fell asleep with Sundance’s tiny teeth chewing on one of her fingers as the kitten snoozed.

.

.

.

As Smokescreen advised, Arcee gave Prowl her space. It hurt to do so. She wanted to sweep the sweet, delicate scholar Prowl had been into her arms and carry her home where she was safe. She wanted the easy working relationship they had started to establish before Prowl had been taken. Both seemed to have been utterly obliterated. Prowl might not have been mistreated, but she had become a fiercely independent, deeply hurting femme who wanted little to do with Arcee. All she could do was hold Prowl when she cried and leave her alone when she wanted nothing to do with her, which was most of the time.

Her own helplessness frustrated her. She thought it best to get back as fast as possible, so that Prowl could distract herself from whatever had happened and get back to normal. Smokescreen disagreed and dragged his feet both figuratively and literally.

“She’s grieving, Princess,” he’d said when Arcee had confronted him. “She needs time to grieve before she’s mobbed by a bunch of people and duties that won’t  _ let _ her grieve. And,” he said as Arcee had opened her mouth to order him to stop dawdling anyway, “with all due respect, you are not my princess, Princess. If  _ Prowl _ orders me to hurry up, I will do so, but until then,  _ deal with it.” _

Left with no choice but to move at the pace the translator forced them to set, Arcee was still grateful that it was Smokescreen delaying and not anyone overtly offering to slow their pace for Prowl. Prowl was utterly determined to keep up whatever pace they went at, and snapped whenever someone so much as suggested slowing or stopping for her. Smokescreen might have been going deliberately slowly for reasons Arcee didn’t agree with, but it also meant he was the one who took the brunt of Prowl’s temper whenever she suspected he was doing it for her sake.

Everyone except Arcee seemed able to help Prowl in some way. Hot Rod played with the kitten — Lady Sundance of Greenfields, as Prowl insisted she be called — and they talked about spells, learning what they could from each others’ books while Prowl explained each spell to her future familiar. Instead of the gentle, harmless research spells Prowl had focused on before, now she memorized a full range of battle spells. Drift, it turned out, knew how to use a sling like the one Prowl had found in the gifts Jazz had given her. Prowl didn’t touch the blowgun and darts, warning that they were poisonous, but she pounced on Drift’s offer to teach her the sling. As long as the dogs stayed away from her cat.

There were mornings Prowl woke momentarily having forgotten how to speak Praxan, and Smokescreen would carry the morning conversation until Prowl switched back to her native language. They helped each other dig out the holes in the sand they slept in. They talked, Arcee knew they talked, about all the things she felt like Prowl should have been talking to  _ her _ about: the ordeal she’d lived through, what it was like living with her kidnapper… Jazz.

She just didn’t know what to do. This was nothing like she’d anticipated. She had imagined Prowl being too badly traumatized to move under her own power as a worst-case scenario, with the possibility that she would blame Arcee for not having prevented or shortened her ordeal. Her intended’s new indifference and mood swings were proving much harder to handle. Arcee was grateful none of the terrible things she’d feared had happened to Prowl, but whatever  _ had  _ happened had changed her in ways she didn’t understand.

A couple of times she tried asking Prowl about it, trying to find a way for them to reconnect. Each time triggered anger and tears, so she hadn’t continued to press. At least it was clear from what she  _ did  _ say (and some of what Smokescreen had said) that Prowl didn’t hate her. The problem wasn’t Arcee — the problem was Arcee wasn’t  _ Jazz. _

That hurt, to realize that what Prowl was grieving for was a lost love. It left Arcee feeling almost like she was grieving too: she had been looking forward to bonding with Prowl, working together with her and being her partner. Now she worried their bonding would only distress Prowl. She didn’t want to be a source of pain for the poor thing… even if that wasn’t a fair descriptor for the Praxan princess anymore. If it had ever been.

Rejoining with the Praxan guards just seemed to cement Prowl’s new sense of independence and confidence. Instead of taking a more passive role, discussing their options and coming to a decision together with Arcee, she simply issued orders and the Praxans jumped to follow them. She very effectively took over most of the aspects of their journey, using it as a distraction from her sorrows by day while still quietly breaking down most nights. Arcee made a point of always offering a shoulder for her to cry on, but never asked more than once if Prowl wanted her to stay.

Prowl really didn’t like having her decisions questioned. Arcee could appreciate how what she’d been through, being powerless, if not helpless, would make her eager to exert her control, but she began to suspect something more was behind it. Prowl didn’t like others questioning her decisions when she was already questioning them herself — and one decision in particular.

“Why did she let you go?” Arcee finally asked when they were a single cycle’s drive away from the city. She’d left the others to the work of setting up camp, coming over to where Prowl was looking for a suitable place for her sand hollow.

Prowl stopped. Her doorwings went up defensively and Arcee thought she’d snap again, but then her doorwings fell, drooping with sorrow. She scooped up her kitten from where the imperious little thing was pawing at a rock half buried in the sand. Her optics had turned on two cycles ago, and Prowl was letting her slowly explore the world outside her basket. Prowl took a few steps toward the sea, until the surf just washed over her toes and sat, carefully arranging those strange flags around her waist to keep the sand out of her joints. Arcee paused and watched, but when Prowl did all this without either screaming or tears, she cautiously went over to Prowl and sat next to her.

“I broke her spark,” Prowl finally whispered in answer.

“By wanting to come home?”

“By falling in love — with her, with the life she offered, and then telling her it wasn’t my choice to make.” Sundance meowed something as Prowl held her probably too tightly and Prowl meowed back. “By telling her there was nothing she could do to prove herself.”

“Only,” Arcee guessed based on what she’d learned about the things Prowl still carried, “she didn’t give up on you. Did she?”

Prowl fingered the star-shell choker. “She sent all the gifts with me. I told her she should save them, keep them, for when she found a bondmate who could  _ be _ her bondmate, but she sent them with me. She’s,” Prowl choked on her own words. The kitten meowed again, and purred, and Prowl took several deep breaths and managed to continue. “She told me she’d spent her entire life saving up, keeping things, and putting together the perfect arrangement of gifts to present to her mate when she found… when she found me. I destroyed her, Arcee.” She curled in on herself and started sobbing. “My own spark resonant,” she managed between whimpers, “and I destroyed her because I had a  _ responsibility,” _ she spat.

_ Resonant?  _ Arcee felt her own spark wobble with shock.  _ Primus!  _ “Prowl,” she said, her voice shaking slightly as well, “are you sure? You and Jazz, you’re truly resonant?” Prowl would probably be angry she was “doubting her” again, but this was important! Didn’t she know what that meant?!

…Perhaps she didn’t. Prowl was Praxan, not Iaconi. 

“Jazz was sure. She said she could feel it, had felt it from the moment she saw me.” Prowl uncurled enough to lean sideways and let Arcee wrap her arms around her. As she had since that first night she stiffened and shifted, looking for… for  _ Jazz’s _ frame, but eventually that desperation for comfort overcame the wrongness and she sobbed in Arcee’s arms. “I wasn’t. I didn’t feel anything, not until we… not until we merged. I felt her spark  _ calling _ mine.”

Arcee hugged her tightly, at last certain she could offer something that would help her intended. “Please don’t feel as though you should not have merged,” she told Prowl. “I’m glad that you did. Spark resonance is sacred, a gift from Primus. If you were blessed enough to find the match to your spark, it would be unthinkable not to honor it.” Unthinkable for an Iaconi, at any rate. Praxus must put even more weight on civil responsibilities than Arcee thought, if Prowl believed their engagement meant she had to spurn her own spark resonant.

“I wanted more,” Prowl whispered.

She didn’t understand, clearly she didn’t.

Praxus and Iacon were very similar, both descendants of Galifar. Arcee supposed that occasionally masked how different they were in some respects. When their engagement had started with their tour through Praxus, Arcee had initially had trouble with how secular Praxus was. They practiced a version of the Guiding Hand faith, with every Praxan belonging to at least one of the gods’ churches, but it was treated more like organized social time than what Arcee recognized as  _ worship. _ Prowl had respected Arcee’s intense devotions and strict adherence to religious tenets completely and without reservation despite finding them strange, but they hadn’t discussed their religious differences in detail yet. That, Arcee had expected, would happen when Prowl accompanied her to Iacon and they could visit the grand temples. Which would have been fine, if not for this miraculous development. Because they hadn’t talked about those differences, Prowl didn’t know what finding her spark resonant meant for  _ Arcee. _

“When I say ‘honor it’, I don’t mean with a single merge,” Arcee rushed to explain. “Spark resonance is  _ sacred.  _ For any mech or femme to come between a resonant couple is sacrilege under the Covenant of Primus.” And the Covenant was  _ law  _ in Iacon. “Prowl, I am a knight of Primus, bound by the Covenant — I  _ cannot  _ stand between you and what Primus has decreed is your destiny.”

Prowl sniffled as she processed that, the kitten purring quietly. “Really?”

_ “Really.”  _ Arcee moved around from Prowl’s side to kneeling in front of her, hands still clasped on her shoulders. “I will send a message to the Prime informing him of the situation so alternative arrangements can be made.” She had no idea what those arrangements would be, but she had faith that a way would be found. After however long it took to convince everyone necessary that the resonance was genuine, anyway. Mere kilocycles ago, she’d have been one of the first to insist such a thing was impossible between anyone from the mainland and an “island barbarian”. There was no doubt in her spark now though; not after seeing Prowl so changed… and, if she was being honest, after being forced to spend time with a “barbarian” herself. She still didn’t  _ like  _ Ricochet, but that was because the femme was antagonistic, sarcastic, obnoxious, and rude, besides being arrogant, condescending, and a shameless exhibitionist! Her being Polyhexian had nothing to do with their personalities clashing, and Arcee, at least, could admit to that now.

“I can’t intercede on your behalf with your own king, but Iacon will respect the will of Primus,” she said, giving Prowl the first genuine smile she’d been able to summon since the end of the chase. “Even if it weren’t doctrine, I would prefer to see you happy than forced into a union you had no desire for.”

She wasn’t prepared for Prowl to collapse against her again, with renewed sobbing. “It’s too late. Jazz,” she choked. Her cat yowled in protest at being pressed between the two much larger femmes, and Prowl had to calm herself to untangle Sundance’s claws from her plating. “Jazz is gone.”

There was nothing Arcee could think of to counter that… but she knew someone who might. “If it’s the will of Primus, there will be a way to find her — starting with the mech currently in possession of her twin’s wealth of trade-goods. Given the list of things she extracted from Smokescreen and Ultra Magnus in repayment for her help, Ricochet will have to return to Hightower eventually to collect them.”

Prowl’s sobs quieted, turning to engine hiccups as she thought things through. Her venting evened out and Arcee almost thought that exhaustion had pulled her to sleep, but then, “Thank you. For everything. You are a better femme than I deserve to be engaged to.”

Arcee’s field warmed at the compliment. “That is kind of you to say. But there’s an even better femme out there for you than me.” She could only hope to one day have the courage and selflessness Jazz had shown in giving Prowl up.

With a small, uncertain, smile Prowl pulled Arcee back into an embrace. This time instead of her holding Prowl, Prowl was holding her. She  _ had _ known that Prowl’s frame was technically bigger and bulkier than her own, but this was the first time Arcee had actually felt like she was the smaller one. It was very strange, but she let her…  _ not _ her intended, Arcee wasn’t going to think of her that way any longer… let Prowl hold her as the water washed over their feet and legs.

“Polyhexians don’t believe in Primus,” Prowl said softly, thoughtfully, a breem later. Apparently she’d decided she was done crying, at least for now. Arcee couldn’t blame her; the sort of grief Prowl had been living with had to be exhausting, and the stoic, snappish mask she’d been maintaining would have only made her more exhausted. Now she wanted to talk about what she’d  _ learned. _

“No? What do they believe in then?” Arcee asked, realizing that she really did want to hear the answer. Some (most) of Prowl’s scholarly discussions hadn’t held her interest in the past, but this time she wanted to do more than just let her talk. She wanted to listen.

Still too tired to laugh, Arcee felt Prowl’s frame twitch in a soft, weary chuckle. “I don’t even know all of it. Spirits and the sparks of their forbears and more gods than I thought any religion could possibly have, and they aren’t very particular about the distinctions. A hero could be a god, a god could be a mechanimal, and each of them are possessed of a mechanimal spirit… which helps them become heroes. They worship the wind and the waves and everything in the world, and there is a place for even themselves, as individuals, in their own religion because they’re part of the world they worship. It’s very interesting!”

Arcee blinked, trying to take that all in. “It sounds rather confusing and chaotic to me,” she said, wondering at the thought of such a radically different religion. “How is it, if they have so many gods, that Primus does not number among them?”

“Promise you won’t be angry for my theories?”

“I can promise that, yes,” though the question made Arcee a little anxious. But theories were, after all, only that: theories. Prowl was not asking her to accept anything contrary to her beliefs. “Here — while I dig you a hollow, tell me.”

And so she did, after choosing a site above the tide line. Arcee set to work while Prowl related incredible notions about the two basic mainland religions: the primordial duo — Primus and Unicron — and the Guiding Hand, and how she was starting to wonder if perhaps they both originated with Galifar. And how the territory Galifar had conquered might have been  _ very _ different than the the vassal countries that eventually warred and destroyed the so-called Kingdom of the Gods. For that, she cited the evidence of teeth, and how a Polyhexian style diet needed teeth while a mainlander-style — a  _ Galifarian _ — diet didn’t. She cited how Polyhexian stories mentioned contact with at least one other culture which may have been pre-Galifarian Praxans, but was nothing like modern Praxus. However their two religions first formed, Prowl theorized they had been spread by the empire until the long ago conquerors came upon the Rust Sea and were forced to halt, and Polyhex never learned of Primus because Galifar never conquered even one of the Polyhexian Islands…

.

.

.

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

Prowl knocked on Smokescreen’s door. It was very early morning, before dawn. Given his habits — tending his shop stall until the crowds thinned, then gambling and socializing until the taverns closed — Prowl figured this would be the best time to catch him in his home. Inside the small rented room she heard a crash and a groan and a mech’s voice cursing about appropriate visiting hours.

“What the frag do—” Smokescreen started to snarl as he opened the door. Blearily his optics focused on her and widened. “Princess! Come in! I’m sorry for the mess, but I, uh, lost access to my warehouse and had to move my trade goods here for safekeeping.”

“It’s fine,” Prowl stepped gingerly across the threshold and looked around. Everything was dark, given the hour, but she could see that the room was not so much  _ a mess _ as it was completely devoid of any space for occupants. And in the dark, Prowl could see the single, very obvious glowing line that ran down her host’s chest, marking him as taken and out of bounds for being taken by Polyhexians looking for a mate. In the last vorn, it had become customary for residents and visitors to Hightower to place a black or blue mark (no matter how anyone had tried, no one had been able to reproduce the effect the wake-light fish paint, by either alchemy or magic; Prowl had experimented with her sample of both the ink and the catalyst, but was hesitant to use it all up) on their chests signifying that they could not be taken, but Smokescreen’s mark was a genuine Polyhexian one. Since he obviously wasn’t currently involved in a courtship… “Congratulations on your bonding.”

He paused from where he was blearily fetching energon for the both of them. “Huh? How can you te— Oh!” He rubbed the streak of paint that very clearly marked where his chest opened in passion. “I’m still getting used to that. I meant to send you a letter, but honestly, I only got back a couple cycles ago; I’m still sorting out my business. It was fun though. We talked about it, what we wanted from our bonding and what sort of courtship we wanted, then I paid a group of the city guards to be my ‘rescue’ party while we played hide and seek along the shore.”

So that’s why he had lost access to his warehouse.

“Please tell Sundance not to play with that.” The cat gave Smokescreen a dirty look from where she had been about to pounce on the tassel of a rolled up tapestry/blanket. “Yes,” he continued, this time addressing Prowl’s familiar directly, “I’m talking to you, troublemaker. I need to be able to sell that, and I can’t if you’ve shredded it.”

“Mean,” the now fully grown cybercat sniffed imperiously. “Just wanted to  _ look _ at it,” she lied to Prowl, twining through her mage’s ankles. With a chuckle Prowl picked her up and settled the cat on her shoulder. In the last vorn, she’d become  _ very _ familiar with how recklessly curious a cybercat could be and still chuckled at the memory of realizing just how apt her spirit guide really was. “You’re mean too.”

“Hush beloved,” Prowl meowed back. “We are guests in Smokescreen’s home.”

“Still mean.”

Smokescreen finally found a lantern and turned it on, bathing them both in light. He set it on the corner of an already overburdened table and then retrieved the two cubes he’d poured and handed one to Prowl. “How’s Princess Arcee doing with the new arrangements?”

“Surprisingly well.” Of course Smokescreen didn’t know any of the details of the new treaty, but given his position as Prowl’s correspondent and occasional confidant, he knew more than even some of Praxus’ noble families. As Arcee had said he would, as soon as he got the message, Optimus Prime had immediately insisted on renegotiating the terms for the treaty. The King had thought Prowl had done the right thing in returning and that she and Arcee should still bond, but with Iacon now refusing to accept any terms that did not include allowing Prowl the freedom to bond to Jazz, he had very little choice in the matter. The terms of the treaty were now somewhat more favorable to Praxus; Prowl was relegated to the position of a diplomat and secondary heir, and the King had chosen the most suitable from this last vorn’s crop of new mechs as his primary heir and  _ he  _ was now engaged to Arcee. “Prince Silverstreak is shy, but Arcee is managing to bring him out of his shell,” Prowl smiled. “She’s teaching him archery and he has a real knack for it. He will make a brilliant leader, and is a better match for her than I ever was.”

“That’s good to hear, Princess.”

“Prowl,” Prowl corrected. “If anyone has earned the right to call me by my name and not my title, it is you my friend.”

Smokescreen’s EM field blushed with shy pride. “Thank you. Though you didn’t come here just to congratulate me and gossip about Arcee, Prowl,” he said shrewdly.

No, she hadn’t. “If you’ve been with Ricochet recently, does that mean…?” She couldn’t actually say it.

The merchant took pity on her. “Jazz is still at the island, recovering,” he confirmed. Prowl felt her spark constrict. There was relief that Jazz was still nearby, but also sorrow and guilt that she’d hurt Jazz so badly that she couldn’t even return to the Polyhexian islands. Ricochet had felt it was safer to take her back to the small island Prowl and Jazz had explored together where they wouldn’t have to undertake or repel any raids for awhile. It had the benefit of being near enough that she could visit Smokescreen periodically with relative ease, though when Prowl had first learned how close Jazz was she had been hard pressed not to go to her right away. “She’ll be there at least until the end of the trade season. Then Ricochet’ll decide if Jazz is recovered enough to participate in the war season or sail during the storm season.”

“Thank you Smokescreen.”

“So you’re finally going to do it, then?” the other Praxan pressed. “I haven’t told Ricochet your plans, but she’s at the island now. She’s not going to make it easy for you.”

“It  _ shouldn't _ be easy,” Prowl insisted. “I hurt them,”  _ us, _ “badly last vorn. I need to prove that I’m committed to this, and the only way I’ll be able to do that is if I manage to keep Jazz until both she and her twin have forgiven me.”

Smokescreen nodded, like he hadn’t expected anything else. “I hope you’re well prepared then.”

“I have almost everything I need.” After an entire vorn of working toward her goal, she certainly ought to. “There are, however, a couple of things I could use your assistance in acquiring.”

“If it’s anywhere in this room and you can find it, it’s yours,” Smokescreen gestured grandly. “At a fair market value, of course,” he added with a wink.

“Naturally,” Prowl chuckled. “I’ve brought a list. Can you outfit me with what I need?”

Smokescreen glanced over the list she handed to him, his optics brightening at what he saw. Tallying up the money that would soon be his, no doubt. “I have most of this, yes, and it’s even relatively easy to get to. The only thing I don’t have on hand is this,” he said, pointing to the last item Prowl had written down: a small, short range, but seaworthy, Polyhexian style canoe, “but I’m sure I can get one for you.”

Prowl smiled. “I was sure you could.”

.

.

.

Prowl contemplated the ring in her hand. It was her arcane bonded ring, the one that had served her so well for so long. She imagined she could still feel a spark of magic still within the metal, but in truth there was nothing: it was just a plain, platinum ring.

Her magic had changed. She’d long ago abandoned her spellbook as anything but a curiosity of her past. Some spells she’d found difficult before, were easy; others she’d found easy, more difficult. Her ability to collect starlight in her hands and use it to bind had faded and now instead she could fling it out and reveal invisible things, or blind, like a weakened version of the Glitterdust spell. Or she could call upon that power to make targets burn like they were stars themselves for a brief time. It was an ability that frightened her sometimes, but she’d come to terms with it, just like she’d come to terms with the combat spells she now routinely memorized.

At the center of that change was the creature rolling on the rough metal of the dock they currently stood on to scratch an itchy spot on her back.

It had taken a long time for Prowl to understand what was happening to her, to her magic, but once she knew, she’d embraced the change. Lady Sundance of Greenfields was not just a random kitten she had picked up on that journey, but symbolic of a fundamental change Prowl was going through and her magic had changed with her to match. Sundance wasn’t just her familiar, but an intrinsic aspect of her magic. She wasn’t just a cat, but also a Cat. Instead of relying on a spellbook, Sundance now remembered all of Prowl’s spells for her and helped her memorize what she needed each morning. Instead of powers painstakingly learned by study, Prowl now used ones granted to her by her connection to this surprisingly powerful spirit.

“Pro~wl!” said surprisingly powerful spirit whined. “If you aren’t going to do it at least be useful and come scratch me!”

“It looks like you’re doing just fine on your own,” Prowl answered, her hand closing around the ring. “I’m doing something important.”

“Nooo, you’re  _ thinking  _ about doing something important.” Sundance stopped rolling, her body half-twisted onto its side while her head rested upside-down on the dock. “If it’s important,  _ do  _ it already! Then come scratch me. Being itchy isn’t fun.”

Prowl laughed. “I suppose you’re right.” She opened her hand and looked one last time at the ring, a symbol of a past that no longer fit her. A life that made her plating itch when she tried to live it. Sundance was a wise spirit indeed — why stand around being itchy and uncomfortable when you could  _ do  _ something about it?

Without any further hesitation, Prowl drew her arm back and cast the empty ring out into the sea. It flew through the air, catching the light just before it hit the water with a soft  _ splash!  _ and sank out of sight.

Feeling like she had thrown off a much heavier burden than a tiny piece of metal, Prowl breathed deeply and freely. She was ready.

.

.

.

She wasn’t annoyed with her twin. Far from it. Jazz was the happiest she’d been since losing P— since what had happened for Ricochet to have her mate. She and Smokescreen were a great match, and Jazz had encouraged her twin to make it official. She was happy she had come back bonded, happy to hear how their adventure had gone, happy, happy, happy.

Jazz sighed, flicking another pebble off the rocks she was laying on. She’d had to get away from all that happy when the sun rose and she woke to Ricochet — Ricochet! — singing on the beach. Rather than spoil her twin’s good mood, Jazz had taken her poor one away to one of the tiny rock outcroppings a short swim away from the main island. She’d go back soon, once she was able to face Ricochet’s cheer without pain in her spark.

It came and went, that pain. Less often now than before, right after— right after. Jazz sighed again. She didn’t like feeling so melancholy, but nothing made it better save waiting for it to pass. Distractions only helped so much, and right now her usual distraction was part of the problem.

At least the sun was nice, warm rather than blistering on her worn and faded paint. Ricochet’d said that between the sun and the rust she looked more grey and pink than black and white, but Jazz didn’t care. What did it matter what she looked like? There was no one to impress.

She was wallowing again.

A third sigh turned into a yawn and Jazz decided maybe trying to sleep off this funk wasn’t a bad idea. She hadn’t done much today other than swim, and not much of that, but she still felt awfully tired. What could a nap hurt? She was above the tide line, Ricochet would be able to find her easily enough if she needed her, and the rocks were surprisingly comfortable here (and gravel free!).

Curling up, Jazz let the sweet call of sleep carry her away. It was so strong, she almost thought she could hear actual words in the wind…

She woke up on something soft, tucked under a blanket and the night sky. Seadreamer and Silvercloud sparkled overhead, shining their pale pink light down on her where she lay beside—

“‘Lo, beautiful.”

_!!! _

Prowl —  _ Prowl!  _ — smiled next to her. The Praxan princess was half-sitting, half-laying propped up on her elbows watching Jazz with a gentle, hopeful expression on her face. “I missed ya.”

Jazz sat up, tried to do so quickly, but ended up jerking off balance. She felt dizzy, intoxicated, and part of her wanted to think it was just Prowl’s sheer presence knocking her for a loop, while the rest of her decided that it must be a side effect of some Praxan sleep spell. She tried again, much more slowly, and actually managed to sit.

It took… a  _ monumental _ effort, but she managed to tear her optic band away from the glowingly beautiful femme next to her to look around. She could still hear the roar of the surf but all she saw were the tangled pillars of a crystal forest. Two grazers of some sort plucked new, delicate growths from the ground and trees around where they were tied nearby.

She looked back at Prowl —  _ Prowl! _ — intending to ask what was going on, but instead was once again struck speechless by her presence.

“‘S’a dream…” she finally whispered, reaching out, but she didn’t touch Prowl’s gleaming black and white plating for fear the mirage would disappear if she did.

“Ain’t.” Prowl’s hand, the one not supporting her weight, reached back across the distance between them and closed over her (bound, she only now noticed) hands. “Or if it is, I don’t wanna wake up either. Pretty sure I didn’t imagine all th’effort it took t’git ya off’a that island though.”

Bound hands, not on the island, the after effects of an unknown sleep spell…  _ Prowl… _ “Yer… this is… really?”

Prowl’s smile widened. “Really. Y’proved yerself t’me — now it’s my turn t’prove m’self t’ya.”

“I thought ya needed t’go back, t’Praxus… bond ta—” Jazz couldn’t even say it. “Go back.”

“I  _ did  _ need ta go back. By th’laws’a my people, I had t’bond with Arcee. It’s th’laws’a  _ her  _ people that freed me t’follow my spark.” Prowl’s hand left Jazz’s, but only so she could rest her palm over Jazz’s chest seam. “They believe what we have is sacred.”

“Is,” Jazz couldn’t help but whisper. Electricity seemed to surge at the touch, and broke down the last of her hesitation. She threw herself at Prowl, even though she couldn’t quite manage to hold onto her with her hands bound. Jazz almost expected Prowl to flinch away as she often had while she’d been Jazz’s prisoner, but Prowl caught her easily and clung with just as much desperation (and more success). “Prowl!”

“Jazz!” Prowl’s voice was shaking slightly, as was the rest of her. “I’m so, so sorry ‘bout what happened. I’ve missed ya every single cycle I woke up alone without ya holdin’ me.” Her field was full of regret, of guilt, but her spark, so close behind the barrier of her plating, was  _ calling…  _ Jazz’s plating opened. It had been too long, too much sorrow for her  _ not _ to answer that call. She wanted her beloved spark.

Prowl’s armor parted barely a nanoklik after hers. Both of their sparks leapt for the other, energies colliding as they came together to occupy the same space.  _ Love!  _ Prowl’s spark was incandescent with the emotion she’d been so careful to hold back before.  _ Lovelovelove!  _ Yet beneath that lingered traces of pain and grief as deep as Jazz’s, coupled with a desperate plea for forgiveness nearly overshadowed by a fear of rejection.

Jazz smothered that fear with her own  _ Love! _ Ricochet might not forgive so easily, but Jazz hadn’t expected to ever see Prowl, her beautiful Prowl, again… she would not — would  _ never! _ — reject her! Prowl was still the perfect mate, the best mate, the  _ only _ mate for Jazz… 

Emotion and energy built between them. It was almost too fast, too intense to be pleasurable, but  _ pleasure  _ and  _ joy  _ and  _ happiness  _ were what they felt, shared so readily there was no originating with  _ Prowl  _ or  _ Jazz,  _ it was just  _ them.  _ Only the thinnest veil still separated them, a barrier Prowl held in place with overwhelming  _ respect. _

She was holding back just enough to keep from deepening the merge to the point of bonding — leaving it Jazz’s choice to make. A choice Jazz  _ wanted _ to make. There was  _ nothing _ she wanted more than bonding with Prowl, but she held back too, also out of respect. Prowl had gone through all this trouble to capture her; Jazz didn’t want to dishonor that by bonding within the first sun mark of the ritual.

So the energy built between them, intense and  _ more, _ until overload exploded between them like the birth of a star…

When the supernova faded, Jazz found Prowl curled close around her, still dazed as her processor worked to restore conscious awareness. Not being as experienced, she took longer than Jazz to recover. Jazz didn’t mind. It meant she got to watch Prowl float slowly back from the place their combined bliss had transported them to, the serene smile on her face transforming when her optics were able to focus and recognize Jazz again.

“Hello, beautiful,” Jazz whispered.

“Hi,” Prowl whispered back. “I love you.”

After a merge like that, Jazz didn’t need to hear the words to know their truth. Prowl had to know that, but sometimes, some words just needed to be  _ said. _ “I never stopped loving ya.”

They hugged each other tightly again, but Prowl didn’t let them stay like that for long. “Ricochet’ll have woken up by now, and she would’a felt what we just did, wouldn’t she?” Jazz nodded. “Then I really shouldn’t delay.” Reluctantly, she let go of Jazz to retrieve a very familiar looking pair of shells. She cracked them open and Jazz smiled as she painted the black smudge across her cheeks and down her chest seam.

The wake-light glow sprang to life a moment later when she painted the clear coat on. “Mitnesimeage,” Prowl chanted flawlessly, stroking the line on Jazz’s chest one more time just because. “Now everyone’ll know yer mine.”

Jazz shivered, gaze captured by Prowl’s. “Yeah… “ Automatically she reached for the shell with her bound hands. She wanted,  _ needed, _ to return the gesture, to put her marks on Prowl again. Prowl seemed to feel the same way, for she held the shells steady for Jazz and leaned in close so she could reach easily.

“Yer mine too,” Jazz said, spark constricting with happiness, once she’d said the word to activate the glow, “and everyone’ll know that too.”

“Good!” Prowl didn’t spend time the way Jazz had painting all over her, though she did reach up and stroke over one of her helm protrusions after she’d closed the shells. “We can do more marks later,” she said, angling her helm for a quick kiss. “Right now, it’s time to go.”

“Yeah…” Jazz let herself be drawn to her feet. She looked again at the grazers and wondered what they were for. One of them seemed laden down with supplies, while the other had some sort of… seat?… on its back. Did Prowl intend for this to be an overland chase to deny both twins the advantage the sea gave them? How clever!

Of course Jazz wouldn’t let it be that easy. She could still hear the sea, so she should be able to run to it… if she could get out of the ropes. She twisted her wrists and found that Prowl had been careful enough to ensure Jazz couldn’t reach them with her claws — clever! — but they were bound in front of her. If she could find a moment when Prowl wasn’t watching, Jazz should be able to bite through the ropes with her fangs…

“Mrrow.”

Jazz looked down to see a cybercat winding around her feet before leaping gracefully onto the packs the first grazer was carrying. The ship cat blinked at her with big, watchful green optics. So much for finding a moment when Prowl wasn’t watching.

“Mrrr,” Prowl said to her, then looked at Jazz with a sly smile. “Sundance says y’were playin’ with the ropes. She thinks they’re a lotta fun, ya see. I told ‘er not t’worry though. If y’manage t’lose those, I got plenty more.”

With that, she secured the last of the supplies and lifted Jazz up onto the seat on the second grazer’s back, then climbed up behind her. The arrangement left her pressed close against Jazz’s back with her arms around her, and Jazz both heard and felt her satisfied purr. “I’m so glad ya kidnapped me,” Prowl said as they took off, the grazers quickly settling into a loping gait.

“Not as happy as I am y’kidnapped me,” Jazz said cheekily. She could escape later. For now, she just leaned back in her beloved’s arms.

.

.

.

##  **End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see how Prowl kidnapping Jazz goes, bonus extras can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11968479/chapters/27066306):
> 
>  
> 
> [All Tied UP](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11968479/chapters/27507306)  
> [Dangerous Games](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11968479/chapters/27528297)  
> [Breaking the Rules](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11968479/chapters/27595542)  
> [Outcast](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11968479/chapters/27618030)  
> [Heroes and Villains](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11968479/chapters/27732138)
> 
> Also, check out this [gorgeous fanart](https://chaoswolf12.tumblr.com/post/170618277668/tfilf-day-3-au-rizobact-and-dragonofdispair-are) by chaoswolf12! Thank you so much, we love it! <3


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